
4 * <I<v ‘ V 0 ' 

% + . ^ - K " "- ' Ko A '' -- ^ V *> 

%--■ ^oo' ° «Slrla « •*->• * §a^ : ; ! 




V o y *:■«■$** O o y-y v y 

% l ’ ,1 '*'.o < ‘ o’*u% *"° 0 > < '* , '\o^ 

— — * \ o 

■%. y 

v V 

V > <? * % i 3 ‘ wfiLw #' - t - - ’>* i 


cA - 
° ^ V 

. Ar 0 -/ V . © ^ 

y ^MF v * ^ ^ ^ 

s- ** , < s <9 <5* y 

. A * v * - 


0 N 

* 1 
° vO - Xl> 

v 1 > <%c + 

£t <1 * j 


\ 0 ^. t 

- o' O o ' o 0 -^,.' y y.. *yw*s „o 

•y 



p . 

y y 




y ^.. o ; 

* ■ a 

O , y o „ V ■* \U 

* y .» nc 

l > 


* ,V ^ A^^ery •' '+ y 

% % “ ,x 0 o*V; : ; *;V'“'y v V : .*«% 
y W ^ : w r 

y° A A A a *\Ris> ! ’° A y 

sf s Or c<- ^/yYlyjw > _ ^ ^ vuy y ^ y ~j + 

o y ^ *•* 77 ,*' - o ° y %,, 

. y y y ‘ 



^>7 z \ 7 

y y 


-' /% 

V o/c - - , % " J '"' / 

'-° * ^ \. J* * 

' *j- Y 




P eu " ^ 

« 4 , o ° «© y % y .'' , o ° c o , v » 

1 * vjV ' s '- y aK “' 0 *’■••* *> 

' ^Ot^, y 'p v f5_ S-) -v A '- 7 o. 

\ <*■ * •<?*_ .v» <v rA'^>" />i "Kc 

cP- .A' tOASfc //h c V. cy o 

</* \* «s • S2. t '■S'* 

y y ,-: 

» A 



= s y . 


A S 


't 

*2-, ■>» s. 

^ - •*© 0 x ° 

; ^ >* ^ ■“ 
y A ' f * 


r " \ v * ^ * •>. - i'y ^ p . ‘ _ •'' 

* ^sx c#v p '' ^ Q -, «y 

• ^ v . „ * 8 , y y s • * , * a 

V N *> v 9 l v s L ^ J ^ 

t . 


0 M 




: **+4 - 



AV Ay 

^ * * * o ^ 

■>. n 


* 

o,A •■ V 



«y <» 






'Kc, A- 
<> v 


c? v / 

: w : 

_ ° ^ ^ ", 
r~- r « o • c^v *• 

^ * 3 S 0 ’ ^ * 

t O V * Y * 0 ^ 

<* 




^ V* 


\ Qc U. 


x 00 ^ 


• ^ 




CK l~ 

* a i 

-\ 

| *A * ' 


.0 




,0 



*» " ^L.ll\WvS> N O 

•$• 'X O ^ s ' " * *• ^ ' 

A V v 4*41*%^ * 4> + 

r - Ac. c} * o^’ * 

*>> V t* ^8111^ <2 <P \v 

* <£> A*. * 

* 














MEFUCAINE 



CHICAGO: 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 


Idylwild Series Vol. 1. No. 30. Jan. 24, 1893. Issued weekly. Annual Subscription, $26.00. 
Entered in the Postoffice at Chicago as second-class matter. 


LIBBY PRISON W&R MUSEUM. 

Removed from Richmond, Virginia, in 1889 to CHICAGO, and converted into a great 
War Museum. The only one in America illustrating American heroism. A wonderful 
exhibition. Open daily and Sunday from 9 a. m. to 10 p. m. 

WABASH AVENUE, BETWEEN 14th AND 16th STREETS. 

No Animosity, No North, No South, but iTtiinn. 


That ancient machine of thine • 

For Wheeler & Wilson’s No. 9. 

WHEELER & WILSON ftfSANUFACTURSMC CO., 

i 8 5 and 187 Wabash Ave., CHICAGO. 


L. MANAS 5E, OPTICIAN, 

88 Madison Street, * Tribune Building, 

CHICAGO, ILL. 

Importer, Manufacturer and Dealer 

•St> ! N <%■ 

Standard Opera, Field and Marine Glasses, Spec= 
tacles and Eye=G1asses, Barometers, Ther= 
mometers, Hydrometers, etc. 

MAGIC LANTERNS and Views, Illustrating all sub- 
jects of popular interest. 

1868. THE OLD RELIABLE, 8892. 









LET THE HUSBAND SUFFER, IT IS HIS LOT. Page 340. 


L’AMERICAINE 

% 


BY 

Jui.es Claretie. 


N 


TRANSLATED BY 

WILLIAM HENRY SCUDDER. 



CHICAGO. 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 
1892, 





VZ3 

.054 Am 


Copyright, 

1892. 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 


' ' 


MADAME H. S. S. 


Permit me, madam, to send you, from Paris to 
Philadelphia, this book, in which you will find more 
than one observation, more than one trait, which I 
have borrowed from the eminent statesman, the pro- 
found philosopher and the charming conversational- 
ist whose honored name you bear. I have not pre- 
tended, in this quasi-Parisian romance, to paint the 
domestic manners of your country-women. I have 
seized au passage the American types I have seen, 
and I have wished neither to make a picture nor a 
Satire of life in the New World. Do not look for 
the special study of a race under this title: L’Amer- 
icaine. Seek only, what I hope you will find, the por- 
trait of a woman. 

What I have especially aimed at, to be candid, in 
the romance I send you, madam, is not America, but 
divorce, which, by the way, is an American importa- 
tion. With you, divorces are obtained with prodig- 
ious facility. We have not yet reached the same 
condition of things in France, but we are approach- 
ing it rapidly, and it might not be amiss to inaug- 
urate a movement of reaction. You will the more 

3 


4 


MADAME H. S. S. 


approve what I have done, madam, I am sure, 
because your own American fireside is a nest of 
affections and memories, crowned with the dear im- 
age of him who has honored me with his friendship. 

Be pleased to receive, madam, across the chasm 
of time and space, the homage of my profound 
respect. 


Jules Claretie. 


CHAPTER I. 


T Trouville, on a fine clear day in July, under a 



** soft blue sky lightly flecked with white clouds, 
before the sea smooth and green, its beach edged 
with a lace-work of white foam, Dr. Fargeas, the 
celebrated neurologist, sat talking, under the shade 
of a large umbrella planted in the fine sand. While 
talking he was looking at the vessels passing along 
the horizon, among them a steamer with its long 
wake of black smoke. In his character of art ama- 
teur, he was comparing the violet colored coast line 
of Cape de la Heve, which showed in the distance 
with its red and yellow tints, to the water color 
marine sketches which were hanging in his own cab- 
inet in Paris. 

The doctor liked to give himself up to these 
idle, rambling talks on his days of rest and leisure. 
He was seated between two men, the one about 
thirty-five years old, with a soldierly air, the Mar- 
quis de Solis, who had just returned from Tonquin, 
and had stopped the night before at the Hotel 
Roches Noires; the other, a young man wearing a 
light straw hat, with a broad ribbon, who, stretched 


5 


6 


l’americane. 


out in a large wicker chair, with legs crossed, was 
idly tapping his left shoe with the end of his silk 
umbrella. This was M. de Berniere, a handsome 
young fellow, a distant cousin of the Marquis de 
Solis. He was as much an idler and scoffer, deca- 
dent and pessimist according to the mode, in his 
intellectual way, as Georges de Solis, with only ten 
years more upon his shoulders, was enthusiastic and 
credulous, traveling all over the world in quest of 
scientific truths. Dr. Fargeas had also remained 
ardent and alert, in spite of his long gray locks 
which now set off his thin visage and gave it char- 
acter. 

They had met after dinner and had mechanically 
seated themselves on the beach in the delicious far 
niente of that seaside life, the doctor coming from 
his villa, built in a nest of verdure, in the direction 
of Grace; Berniere and de Solis from the same hotel 
where they had chanced to meet without any precon- 
certed arrangement. Fargeas had formerly treated 
the Marchioness de Solis and from time to time gave 
hygienic counsel to M. de Berniere, who did not fol- 
low it. The good doctor was a friend to all his 
patients. To the imaginary invalids, those who 
were simply aenemic or rendered dyspeptic by a life 
in Paris, he applied a treatment peculiar to himself, 


l’americaine. 


7 


a let-alone method. He would banter them, shrug- 
ging his shoulders, and would dismiss them with a 
“Bah, it is nothing! You will soon see the end of it.” 

“Well, doctor, how are your patients?” asked 
Berniere, continuing to tap with his umbrella his 
ankle, which showed beneath the elastic of his 
gaiter. 

“My patients? They are all doing well!” 

And the doctor added laughingly: 

“I visit them so seldom.” 

“It is you alone who have the right to speak in 
this mocking tone of your science, dear doctor,” 
said M. de Solis. He spoke with an evident respect, 
a sort of affcetionate gratefulness. “You are one 
of the masters of the art of healing!” 

“Oh! one of the masters!” The savant nodded 
his head. “The truth is that I am among physicians 
one of the least — mischievous!” 

Berniere smiled and beat a yet quicker tatoo 
with his umbrella by way of applause. 

“Mischievous is good!” he said. 

“But we put the word mischievous under the 
ban!” 

“Well,” said Fargeas, “I am a skeptic in medi- 
cine. That is my strong point. I have noticed, 
taking everything into consideration, that there are 


8 


l'americaine. 


no real maladies except those we imagine we have. 
When a man is really in danger, he thinks there is 
nothing serious the matter. This ignorance of his 
disease reassures him and he recovers in spite of 
the doctor. When the man or woman is an imagin- 
ary invalid, the physician is consulted at every turn. 
Then the danger begins!” 

“Then, according to your idea, there are no 
maladies except imaginary ones?” asked M. de 
Solis. 

“Evidently, as the only passions are those we 
believe we have experienced.” 

Young Berniere, after having applauded, began 
to protest. 

“Oh! those we believe we have experienced!” he 
said. 

Dr. Fargeas paused and looked at this handsome 
young man — blond, curled, with a slight moustache 
delicately turned up at the corners of his mouth, 
with rather colorless lips, and a monocle which con- 
torted the whole of one side of his face like a hemi- 
plegy, while the other side remained normally calm, 
lighted by a small, piercing blue eye, and said: 

“Certainly. You see — but hold, how old are 
you?” 

“Twenty-eight years.” 


l’americaine. 


9 


“And at twenty-eight, you think you have had a 
passion?” 

“Several of them,” answered Berniere. 

“Are you fond of play?” 

“A little,” answered Berniere. 

“Are you a book worm?” 

“Well! so so; I cut the leaves of the volumes with 
my fingers — thus!” 

“Are you a miser? I beg your pardon for the 
question.” 

“My father thinks I am a spendthrift,” Berniere 
replied, “but Emilienne — Emilienne Delannoy, no — 
she — quite the contrary! No, I am not a miser.” 

“Then you have no passions! No,” said Fargeas, 
“neither horses, gaming nor women; not even the 
little—” 

“Emilienne, of the opera bouffe.” 

“No, none of these are passions. They are occu- 
pations, yes, amusements, perhaps!” 

“Ah! ah!” said the young man with an air of 
profound ennui, “amusements? sometimes!” 

“Rarely, I know it,” added the doctor by way of 
accentuating Berniere’s admission, “but passions, no! 
You must see this yourself. You say ‘ah! ah!’ A 
passion is something which seizes you, body and 
soul, which holds you, crushes you, absorbs you, 


10 


l’americaine. 


slowly kills you and yet lets you live. I have 
known but two men who had what could be 
called a passion — a true and absolute passion. 
One was a noble fellow who sought to abolish suffer- 
ing. He died a maniac. The other was an old 
sculptor, who had failed in his ambitions and who 
passed his life in carving cocoanuts, certain that 
in each one he would cut a chef d ’ oeuvre. He 
died an idiot. And it is no more stupid to be enam- 
ored of a beautiful dream, or to brutalize oneself 
over the carving of nuts, than to lose one’s life for 
a woman.” 

Berniere listened to Fargeas with a smile on his 
face, as he would have listened to a song of gallan- 
try, or to a lecture. He did not seem to be much 
interested. He responded in his slow, drawling 
voice: 

“My cousin Solis is here, however, to prove to 
you, doctor, that there are other passions than those 
of carving cocoanuts!’ 

“How?" 

“Why! A noble passion — that of traveling!" 

“But you see that M. de Solis has not experi- 
enced this passion completely, entirely, even to the 
point of dying for it, since he has come home." 

“But one gets tired of everything, doctor," 


L AMERICAINE. 


II 


answered the Marquis de Solis, who was mechan- 
ically tracing a map upon the sand of the beach; 
some chimerical map, no doubt. 

Dr. Fargeas laughed a little triumphantly. 

“One tires of everything. Well, I said nothing 
else!” 

“Then in your opinion, love — ” 

“Oh, I do not believe in it!” said Berniere. 

“But I believe in it, on the contrary,” said Far- 
geas, “as I believe in medicine. I believe in facts. 
I believe in the love of a wife for a husband who 
makes her happy, of a husband for the wife who 
makes him proud of her, of the parents for the child. 
I believe in all the loves which are accompanied by 
an adjective — conjugal love, filial love, paternal love. 
What you will, I believe in self-love especially; but 
I do not believe in simple, unqualified love. Such 
love is only a cheat. It pretends to wings. Bah! 
It has paws — and claws!” 

“That is to say,” said M. de Solis, “putting your 
theory into practice, there is no other passion for 
every man than that of his fireside, and no safety 
except in marriage.” 

“That is it!” exclaimed Fargeas, radiantly. 

“Then,” said Berniere, who thought to embarrass 
the doctor, “why are you not married?” 


12 


l’americaine 


“I? Because I have a passion.” 

“Science?” 

“Precisely.” 

“But you do not believe in it,” said the young 
man. 

“There are so many imbeciles,” said Fargeas, 
shrugging his shoulders, “who, without having 
learned anything, think they know everything. 
There is not too much time in a whole life of work 
for one to be convinced that he knows nothing! 
And then, I have not found the woman who — the 
woman — ” 

“Ah! I have caught you! You have been look- 
ing for an amour!” 

“Or an interest.” 

“You an interest? Never in your life.” 

The Marquis de Solis, while this bantering talk 
was going on, was watching, without really seeing 
them, the fisher-women bringingfrom the sea, spade 
in hand, those long, silvery-hued carp, which hide 
their pike-like heads in the sand and are thus taken. 
There were also shrimp fishers carrying their nets on 
their shoulders, while others followed loaded with 
baskets, a long line of toilers of the sea. 

He was looking, I have said, at these fisher folk; 
but his thought was elsewhere. All that he heard 


l’americaine. 


13 


spoken by those about him seemed to awaken in 
him memories, dormant sensations, to galvanize into 
a fictitious life, dead sorrows, and his fine face, a 
little saddened, meager and pale, with his brow 
becoming a little bald; with his black and pointed 
beard; this face of a thoughtful soldier had an ex- 
pression of melancholy reverie. 

From this reverie the marquis seemed at last to 
tear himself in order to ask the doctor: 

“You are then of the opinion that there is always 
for a man an ideal woman, made expressly for him, 
and who is the incarnation, the realization of his 
dreams?” 

“I am of the opinion that for every man there 
are even several,” answered the doctor, gaily. 

“Good; but how is it for the women?” said Ber- 
niere. 

“Oh! For the women! Ask Emilienne Delan- 
noy. Ask Mrs. Montgomery, who is a respectable 

woman, and yet she has already changed her 

ideal! 

“Madame Montgomery?” And Berniere seemed 
to expect that Dr. Fargeas would explain himself. 

“How, doctor, the handsome Madame Mont- 
gomery has changed her — ideal. How is that?” 


14 


l’americaine. 


“Oh, legally. She is divorced. But my dear 
Berniere, however respectable a woman may be ” 

“Who does not love her husband.” 

“Why does not Madame Montgomery love her 
husband?” 

“Because he has no — ideal I suppose.” 

“ That depends. We do not know that,” said the 
doctor gravely. 

“Well! if Mr. Montgomery, who is short and fat, 
is the ideal of Mrs. Montgomery, who is in fact, 
admirably beautiful, handsome enough for a sculp- 
tor’s model, to be painted, to be raved over in verse, 
so much the worse for the rest of us who can only 
despair.” 

“Or console ourselves with Emilienne Delannoy, 
Fanny Richards, or Marianne d’ Hozier. There is 
no lack of consolations. They are bought and sold, 
and, like the commodity called alcohol, they abound 
everywhere.” 

“And this handsome Mrs. Montgomery,” asked 
M. de Solis. “ She is — ” 

“ An admirable and intoxicating creature!” an- 
swered Berniere. “ She is an American, like all 
women whose portraits furnish advertisements to the 
tobacconists and vendors of perfumes. Since the 
season began she has made a revolution in Trouville 


l’americaine. 


5 


— an ebullition, if you like the term better. There 
is no one on the turf of beauty — you see that I am a 
modernist — who is comparable to her, unless it be 
Miss Arabella Dickson! Ah! She is incomparable. 
At the hour when Miss Arabella takes her bath, 
boatloads of sight-seers come from Deauville to 
look at her arms and neck. Carriages are at a 
premium at that psychologic moment. Besides, she 
is really handsome. She is worth seeing.” 

“ And who is this Miss Dickson?” asked de Solis. 

“ She is the daughter of a colonel, a fine looking 
man. There is nothing of the trifler about him. He 
is a Yankee — a Mohican — a type. It appears that 
he has fought Indians, revolver in hand, at the head 
of a band of cowboys — like Buffalo Bill, you know. 
I met him the other day at the gaming booths in the 
Casino. There was a circle around the Dickson trio 
— for there is a mother. She is very handsome also. 
The Dicksons are all three handsome. Besides” — 
and Berniere stretched himself out in his wicker 
chair with an air of affected nonchalance — “this 
whole race of Americans puts to the blush our pes- 
simistic ideas. We have an aenemic air, as the doc- 
tor would say, by the side of these colossi carved in 
stone. Now look at Mr. Norton, for instance.” 

“Norton!” said M. de Solis. 


6 


l’americaine. 


The name made him turn his head suddenly and 
he looked inquiringly at Berniere as if to ask what 
Norton his cousin could be talking about. 

“Why! Mr. Norton, the rich Mr. Norton, the 
millionaire. To be more explicit still, Mr. Richard 
Hepworth Norton, the banker, who has bought the 
hotel of the Duchess d’ Escard, in the Park 
Monceau, and has stocked it with seven or eight 
million francs worth of pictures, not to speak of 
telephones!” 

Richard Norton! That name awoke in the mind 
of the marquis a world of memories. He had 
known this Norton formerly in New York, and now 
he had found him again on this Normandy coast, 
after what a separation and what wanderings. 

“He is here? Norton?” 

“Over yonder,” said Fargeas. “That large Nor- 
man mansion, one of the last toward the Hotel 
Roches Noires, is his dwelling. You can see it 
from here.” 

The marquis no longer directed his gaze toward 
the sea but looked in the direction of that long line 
of diversified constructions, elegant or bizarre, 
which opened their windows on the sea like eyes 
eager for the light. 

“Over yonder — yo\ see? A real palace, that 


l’americaine. 


17 


villa!, Mr. Norton has amassed a great profusion of 
rareties there. It would be a museum in Paris! At 
Trouville it is a veritable curiosity. But nothing is 
costly and luxurious enough in Mr. Norton’s eyes 
for the wife whom he adores, and who is besides the 
most exquisite creature I know.” 

The doctor did not notice the expression of 
vague sadness which passed rapidly over the face 
of de Solis. At the name of Mrs. Norton, the 
marquis had started slightly and his features con- 
tracted with a passing spasm which ordinarily would 
not have escaped Fargeas, but at this moment he 
was scanning the landscape through his half-closed 
eye-lashes to judge the quality of the light. 

M. de Solis immediately recovered his equanim- 
ity, and assuming an expression of indifference, 
he questioned the doctor about Mrs. Norton with 
the air of one curious to know the current gossip of 
the beach. 

The doctor was the better acquainted with the 
American lady because he was her physician. She 
was suffering with an indisposition not very well 
understood in New York — a disease of the nerves, 
the famous nervous prostration — but which the 
French master understood at a glance; the germ of 

cardive affection, something resembling angina pec- 

2 


i8 


l’americaine. 


toris. On the whole a pseudonym of sadness. The 
death of her father, whom she worshipped, had 
affected the young woman deeply, and it was to 
tear her away from a sort of constant melancholy, 
from a grief which could always be divined, even 
under the smile of this woman of the world, that 
Richard Norton had brought his wife to France. 

“Then this Mrs. Norton is melancholy?” asked 
M. de Solis. 

“Yes, and resigned.” 

“And adorable,” added M. de Berniere. “She has 
wonderful hair — a bright chestnut brown, almost 
bronze — and eyes! The sea has tints of blue which 
describe them exactly. Look!” 

“Only,” said Dr. Fargeas, “this poetic and deli- 
cious creature came near paying dear for the consul- 
tation I have given her, in the voyage across the 
Atlantic. The wind, the gales, the barometric de- 
pressions brought on an almost complete cessation 
of the heart’s action. It was as if life itself had 
stopped. Fugitive phenomena, however, which 
will disappear radically with repose.” 

It seemed that having brought out these state- 
ments by his questions, M. de Solis now sought to 
avoid further discussion of the fair American. He 
sat still, his gaze fixed on the great house, but he 


l’americaine. 


19 

talked of other subjects, of his travels, of Anam and 
Tonquin, whence he had lately returned. 

“Madame de Solis must have been very happy to 
see you again,” said the doctor. 

“ My mother ! Poor, dear woman. I almost 
•reproach myself for leaving her when I see how 
rejoiced she is to have me with her again. How 
thankful I am to yo.u, doctor, for having saved her 
life for me.” 

“Saved! saved! My dear marquis, we do not 
save the lives of those whom death has marked for 
his own. I deserve no greater credit than for hav- 
ing given good advice to the marchioness, which she 
followed. She has done more for the re-establish- 
ment of her health than I. When I tell you that I 
have some doubts as to the entire efficacy of medi- 
cine, I do not underestimate the value of the sugges- 
tions which physicians may give their patients, and 
which, by the aid of the imagination, often effect a 
cure. I have produced astonishing results by pre- 
scribing, with a becoming gravity of expression, pel- 
lets of mica panis-mica pa?iis! The patients would 
swallow them with a shiver of disgust and hope. 
Then they would imagine themselves better — mica 
pa?iis; translation — bread crumbs! Ah ! the human 
brain, the imagination, the chimera!” 


20 


l’americaine. 


And now the conversation wandered on generali- 
ties, medicine, the morning news, the article in the 
Vie Parisienne devoted to the shoulders and the- 
bathing dresses of Miss Arabella Dickson. It was 
Berniere who talked, but M. de Solis was not listen- 
ing. It was as if his thought had been transported to 
the villa, which showed itself, with its red gables, at 
the end of a vista of glaring beach. And suddenly, 
almost brusquely, he left his cousin and the doctor 
talking, giving each a shake of the hand, pretending 
that he had forgotten to write a letter, or that he had 
an important telegraphic despatch to forward, and 
disappeared in the street. 

The doctor, looking at his watch, also remem- 
bered an engagement and departed, leaving Berniere 
alone in his wicker chair smoking a cigar which, in his 
character of pessimist, he insisted should be of the 
best brand; for while citing Schopenhauer, he prac- 
ticed Epicurus. 

Keen observer that he was, the mental agitation 
of M. de Solis had not escaped his notice, and he 
asked himself why the marquis had parted com- 
pany with him so suddenly. Solis had said nothing 
to him about an important letter. They had agreed 
to go horseback riding within the half hour. Could 
the marquis have forgotten it? Then the eagerness 


l’americaine. 


21 


of de Solis to learn the details of the health of 
Mrs. Norton; the evident interest the marquis took 
in what the doctor said concerning his fair patient 
gave Berniere some vague ideas of a half formed 
romance, of a possible intrigue. 

“Come, come! This fine Count Solis!” But the 
thought itself vanished with the smoke of his 
cigar, in the open air of this beautiful day. 

Berniere soon forgot his cousin in noting the 
approach of a short, fat man, with a very red face, 
whose hair and whiskers were beginning to turn 
gray. This man, without umbrella, was coming 
toward him, with his hands in his pockets, and was 
sniffing the air with the apparent enjoyment of a 
healthy being to whom mere existence is a pleasure. 

“Why! it is Mr. Montgomery!” It was indeed 
he, the husband of the handsome Mrs. Montgomery, 
the man the most sought after, the most envied, the 
most jealously hated man on the Beach, and who 
bore most philosophically the weight of his wife’s 
beauty. 

“Ah! M. de Berniere!” said the fat little man, 
smiling. “Well! what are you doing here, Mr. 
Schopenhauer? You are digesting, I’ll wager. But 
disenchanted as you are, should you not allow your- 
self to die of inanition, since life is a burden?” 


22 


l’americaine. 


“A burden, yes; but a curious one,” said Ber- 
niere, throwing away his unfinished cigar. “It is 
like a play; sometimes awfully stupid, but yet a 
play. You have some time been in the theatre 
when the piece was bad ” 

“Often,” said the American, with the slightest 
Saxon accent. 

He had seated himself near Berniere, on a chair 
whose legs were driven into the sand by his 
weight. 

“And the piece was tediously long, and everybody 
wanted to go home. But they didn’t; they re- 
mained,” said M. de Berniere. “They remained, 
they knew not why. It was because, being there, 
they did not want to get up and disturb the others. 
That is life, my dear Mr. Montgomery.” 

“Oh, there are many little relieving circumstances 
about life! But you are right, all the same; nothing 
is so stupid as a heavy play. They played such a 
one at the Casino yesterday. It was terrible. And 
what actors! There was one comedienne, who, they 
pretended, was a graduate from the Conservatory. 
And her age — good heavens!” 

“Perhaps she dated from the time of Talma!” 

“And I stayed through it all, because my wife 
did not want to leave. She always wants to see 


l’americaine. 


23 


everything. She is no pessimist. Indeed, every- 
thing amuses her; everything, even I.” 

“Bah!” ejaculated Berniere. 

“Thanks!” said the American quickly. 

M. de Berniere tried to explain his “bah.” 

“I meant to say ” 

“Oh, don’t explain, please,” said Montgomery, 
with an amiable smile. “That surprises you, does it? 
Well, it astonishes me when I think I am the hus- 
band of the handsomest woman in the American 
colony. She is a beauty — a professional beauty!” 

“Yes, a ‘p r °f ess i° na kle beauty!’ I know it,” said 
the young man. “I have learned the American 
term from my English professor; but we need not 
translate it.” 

Mr. Montgomery smiled in accepting the little 
joke of the Parisian. 

“I understand — yes. One who makes a profes- 
sion of beauty. The term is misconstrued in Paris,” 
he added, coldly, with a singular smile. “But they 
will not be deceived long. Mrs. Montgomery is 
very amiable — very amiable — away from home! The 
other day a writer, Papillo?me of the Figaro , took 
the fancy to tell the story of our marriage. It is 
very poetic.” 

“Indeed?” said M. Berniere. 


24 


l’americaine. 


“Thanks again!” and Montgomery bowed slightly. 
Then seeing that the young man evidently wished 
to recall the unlucky exclamation, he said: “Oh, do 
not explain. She was divorced from her first hus- 
band.” 

“What! Mrs. Montgomery?” 

“Yes; you have not read Papillonne' s article. I 
am her second. She fell in love with me on account 
of my — well, on account of my name.” 

“Truly! Montgomery!” said M. de Berniere, pro- 
nouncing the historic name. 

But Montgomery again interrupted: 

“Oh, do not insist. There are two m's in the 
French name Mo?itgommery , only one in mine. And 
that troubles Mrs. Montgomery not a little.” 

“You could have it made over; another m and a 
de—" 

“I have thought of that, but it would be noticed.” 

“Oh!” replied the young man, laughing, “that is 
done every day.” 

“But Norton would laugh at me.” 

“Ah! yes, Mr. Norton. I am sorry my cousin de 
Solis is not here to talk about Mr. -Norton. It is a 
long time since we have talked about Mr. Norton.” 

“You know him, then?” said Montgomery. 

“Oh, a little! As we know foreigners in Paris.” 


l’americaine. 


25 


“I saw you at his house at the last soiree he gave 
at the Park Monceau.” 

“That was the first time I went there. What a 
superb inauguration for a hotel! What luxury! 
What taste! The greenhouse especially was aston- 
ishing. A Parisian jewel seen by Edison electric 
lights! Only they don’t speak French there. I 
saw Turks, Persians and Americans, but I looked in 
vain for Parisians. The most Parisian person I saw 
was a Japanese or a Javanese, I am not sure which. 
But, my dear Montgomery, there is another Norton, 
surely; he who has just bought a Meissonier for 
eight hundred thousand francs at Philadelphia.” 

“That is the false Norton.” 

“How the false Norton?” 

“Just as I am a Montgomery with two tris. The 
true Norton, my Norton, is Richard Hepworth Nor- 
ton, the proprietor of the most famous copper mines 
in the United States, the rival of the boldest railroad 
contractors, the rich Norton, as he is called, to distin- 
guish him from the poor Norton who has only twenty 
millions ” 

“Oh! the unfortunate man.” 

“Of income,” added Montgomery coldly. 

“Then- it is Richard Norton?” inquired Berniere. 

“Yes, Richard Norton, the superlatively rich.” 


26 


l’americaine/ 


“That is true,” said the Parisian. “Rich is now 
used only in the positive degree. It is to be taken 
as the minimum. To have what is strictly necessary 
one must be ” 

“A many millionaire, certainly. Our American 
society has invented the word. We are for the 
enormous, the excessive, the gigantic. We can not 
live, my dear sir, as you do in your old Europe, on 
a patch of worn out earth with the beggarly four 
cents a day which was enough for our fathers. He 
who is not too rich, nowadays, has not enough! He 
who has no indigestion, has not dined! Who is not 
madly in love, has not loved!” 

“I understand,” said Berniere, opening his um- 
brella. “You do not like to live like a petty grocer.” 

The American nodded his head with a sarcastic 

air: 

“Oh! my dear, sir, be careful, be careful! When 
you are with Americans, you must never treat with 
contempt a profession which, to your French preju- 
dices, may be most ridiculous, because the minister 
from the United States, or the president himself, 
may have adorned it. He who speaks to you made 
his fortune over a grocer’s counter.” 

“A Montgomery?” 

“Yes; my wife would be delighted to forget it, 


l’americaine. 


27 


but I do not blush to be reminded of it, by any 
means.” 

“And you are right. But your associate, Mr. 
Norton, he surely did not buy this Norman mansion, 
with its magnificent collections, and his hotel in 
Paris, the wonder of his guests — he did not do all 
this with — prunes?” 

“It maybe that he did it all with prunes; I have 
not asked him,” said Montgomery coldly. “More- 
over we never inquire whence comes a great fortune, 
or a pretty woman. We salute the one and respect 
the other.” 

“Is it the woman whom you respect?” laughingly 
asked Berniere, who had risen, for the sun was 
becoming decidedly hot. 

“Both,” answered the American, “both.” 

“Even in the case of Miss Dickson?” 

“Why do you speak of Miss Dickson?” 

“Because everybody is talking about her. Ah! 
what a pretty creature she is! She will be capable of 
bringing back to Deauville all its ancient splendor. 
It is true, with Trouville on one side and Miss Dick- 
son on the other, I will bet on Miss Dickson; she is 
superb. She would have been a fit subject for the 
painter’s brush, as she appeared on horseback the 


28 


l’americaine. 


other day on the beach. An equestrian portrait of 
Carolus.” 

“Speaking of portraits, Monsieur de Berniere, can 
you recommend to me a painter, an artist of refined 
method, who would succeed in taking Mrs. Mont- 
gomery for the next exposition at the Salon?” 
asked the American. 

“Who could paint Mrs. Montgomery’s portrait?” 
repeated Berniere, and through his monocle he 
scanned the little fat man, who seemed all aglow 
with his question. He scanned him with a smile, in 
which there was a faint, a very faint tinge of irony. 
“Oh these husbands!” he thought. 

“Who could take Mrs. Montgomery’s portrait? 
Why my dear sir, there is an American artist who is 
very much in fashion, entirely in the fashion I might 
say, ever since his famous picture of a woman in the 
style of Whistler — the author of ‘ The Woman in 
Black , Edward Harrison.” 

The calm, almost fatherly face of Montgomery 
suddenly took on an icy look. 

“Harrison?” he said. “Impossible!” 

“Why not?” 

“Because he was my wife’s first husband.” 

“Ah! bah!” said M. Berniere. 

He wanted to add, “So much the better, he 


l’americaine. 


29 


knows her better than another.” But this double- 
edged retort remained unspoken on his lips. He 
was only astonished that Mrs. 'Montgomery had not 
had the good taste to begin by choosing the present 
husband, thus arriving at Mr. Montgomery by the 
shortest cut. But after all a woman has the right to 
be deceived. 

Montgomery must have divined his thought, for 
he said coldly: 

“Divorce is made to remedy all that. Marriage 
without divorce is a prison.” 

“And with divorce you have a prison from which 
one may occasionally break out?” 

“Nothing more nor less.” 

“Very well, my dear sir, I congratulate Mrs. 
Montgomery on having broken jail, and I congratu- 
late you on having profited by her escape. Come, 
let us make a tour of the gaming tables.” 

“Willingly. I like to see them play.” 

“And the betting?” 

“Oh,” said the American, “I never play, never. 
Money lost at play is like bread thrown away. It 
is stealing from those who have not.” 

Berniere wondered, on hearing Montgomery ex- 
press himself in this manner, whether the American 
was not uttering his axiom to produce an effect, to 


30 


l’americmne. 


give himself, as it were, a moral force. No, not at 
all; the rich tradesman was talking seriously, for he 
esteemed only a useful employment of money which 
had been honorably earned. 

While walking slowly toward the Casino, along 
the wooden pavement, under a sun whose rays 
glinted upon the surface of the sea like jewels, the 
young man continued his questions. 

“You will observe that I am not stingy,” said 
Montgomery. “I can understand how we may throw 
money out of the windows, in the way of lavish 
expenditure, but it is absurd, in my opinion, to let 
the croupier rake it from the gaming table.” 

“Bah ! Gaming is a sensation like any other. And 
there are so few — so few!” 

“You think so? You are very happy, are you not?” 

“Not at all; I am terribly bored.” 

“Then marry.” 

“Why?” 

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the American, “to 
have children, if nothing else.” 

“Pooh! Life is so small a thing to give them. 
And then though one is sure to have a wife, he is 
not so sure to have children. You have none.” 

“I beg pardon,” said Mr. Montgomery, laughing, 
“I have a wife who is also my spoiled child.” 


l’americaine. 


31 


“We do not understand each other, dear sir,” 
said Berniere, when they had reached the door of 
the Casino. “You are a man of action, I am a man 
of doubt.” 

“You are better than that — a deliquescent, a man 
who believes the worst of everything, a pessimist in 
short.” 

“As you will. We are all a little so in this end of 
the nineteenth century.” 

“All?” 

“All who think.” 

“Who think only of themselves?” 

“Dear Mr. Montgomery, I would like to know 
who are the people who think especially about 
others? Perhaps you will cite St. Vincent de Paul. 
He is dead.” 

“Are you not a relation of M. de Solis?” 

“I am his cousin.” 

“Does he think only about himself, in going to 
Tonquin, to make observations on the climate of 
that devil of a country?” 

“No.” 

“Is he always boasting of being a decadent, a 
pessimist?” 

“No. But you are citing an exception. My 


32 


l’americaine. 


cousin is an exception — yes' a hero; and the excep- 
tions confirm the rule.” 

“Well, my dear sir, the ambition of every man 
who is not an imbecile is to be an exception. Ah! 
If I were young, and a Frenchman — ” 

“Well?” 

“Well, nothing! The affairs of your country 
do not concern me. Let us go and see the gaming 
tables — enter! Enter, my dear sir.” 

“After you, I pray.” 

“No, after you.” 

“Well, well,” said Berniere, taking the American’s 
arm. “My dear Mr. Montgomery, let us go in 
together;” 


CHAPTER II. 


“Take my card to Mr. Norton. If he is at home 
he will receive me.” 

This order, given in a firm tone, in which, under 
a manner of polished politeness, there could be dis- 
cerned the habit of command, caused the valet, to 
whom it was addressed, to regard the speaker with 
some curiosity. He was a young man, or rather a 
man still young, brown, slender, wearing a full 
beard trimmed to a point, and a closely fitting Eng- 
lish walking coat. Some officer, doubtless, in citi- 
zen’s dress, and without decoration in his button- 
hole. 

The valets in the Norman villa of Mr. Richard 
Norton, accustomed to a host of people asking 
favors, who came to the house of the American like 
an incoming tide, saw only rarely French faces in 
the ante-chamber, and in the valet’s response to the 
young man there was a very marked show of respect. 
He deposited the card upon a silver tray and said: 

“If monsieur the marquis will give himself the 
trouble to wait a moment;” casting a quick glance 
at the card, he read the name Marquis de Solis , and 

3 33 


34 


l’americaine. 


opening ceremoniously the door of a small parlor 
on the ground floor, just off the vestibule, he 
begged the marquis to be seated. 

M. de Solis seated himself, much astonished to 
find such a ceremonial in this luxurious chalet, and 
looked about him. Pictures covered the walls of 
this little parlor which was furnished like a Trianon, 
in white and gold. The illustrious masters were 
here represented by admirable specimens in oil and 
water color. But these were evidently only a small 
sample of Richard Norton’s collection, whose gal- 
lery in New York, as well as that in Paris, was cele- 
brated. 

While thus engaged, the marquis heard the 
valet calling some one through a speaking tube at 
the bottom of the staircase, to know if Mr. Norton, 
whose study was evidently on the first or second floor, 
overlooking the sea, was visible. 

M. de Solis had hesitated in presenting himself 
to Mr. Norton. He dreaded to reopen a sealed 
past which was dear to him. He loved this Norton 
whom he had known in the new world, where the 
marquis had" gone to study the American vines, in 
the hope that he might yet save what was still re- 
maining of the fortune of his mother, the marchion- 
ess. Free, a bachelor, a traveler by predilection, 


l’americaine. 


35 


and for some years by a sort of physical and moral 
necessity, as if he felt the need of shaking off, in 
the feverish changes of locality, some haunting 
obsession. M. de Solis had found few men who were 
as sympathetic as Norton, and who, to tell the truth, 
were, like the American true men. 

And by an ironical destiny, an accident had 
willed that Solis was to encounter in this universally 
respected man, in this friend whose memory he was 
carrying with him through life, the insolently happy 
being, born to snatch from him without realizing it, 
the only woman he had loved. 

A whole romance, unfinished, voluntarily un- 
finished in the agony of his self-sacrifice, in a world 
of dreams, now ended and vanished, suddenly took 
shape and body for de Solis; when the doctor an- 
nounced that Richard Norton and she who was now 
called Mrs. Norton were at Trouville. 

Mrs. Norton! She used to bear another name 
when he met her four years before, at the home of 
her father, Mr. Harley, in New York, when in the 
talks of the young man and the young woman, in 
their spontaneous confidences becoming more and 
more intimate each day, he had gone almost to the 
length of avowing himself to Sylvia. Sylvia! The 
echo of that name was all that was left to him of 


3 ^ 


l’americaine. 


that past — of that growing love, the only true love 
he had ever felt in his life. And Sylvia herself — 
did it not seem that she loved him? Had she not 
said as much in her sweet, shy looks, in the slow, 
soft pressure of the hand, in the words which had 
fallen from that laughing and yet serious mouth? 

How he had loved her! How he had admired 
her pride and a certain haughty calm she had! How 
well he remembered her eyes, clear as a wave 
traversed by the sunlight, as she fixed them upon 
him, as if to read his thoughts — those eyes which 
shone under her blond brows and yellow hair with a 
strange intensity! He had intended to make her his 
wife, with her consent, and if Mr. Harley, the 
banker, had been willing to give his daughter to a 
Frenchman. Of Sylvia, Georges de Solis was sure. 
He had only to declare himself. He was going to 
speak when an alarming despatch from Madame de 
Solis suddenly recalled him to France. The son 
had to return to fight off the fierce creditors from 
the family fortune. 

Then the marquis returned to his country, strug- 
gled, and at last snatched from the grasp of the 
lawyers what his father, who had had a mania for 
speculation, had left his family. But this debris of a 
fortune, sufficient for his mother and himself, was 


L AMERICAINE. 


3 ; 


totally inadequate for the needs of the daughter of 
the banker Harley, and the marquis dared not utter 
the avowal which burned upon his lips. He waited, 
counting upon some fortunate chance, and time 
passed. No doubt Sylvia forgot, thinking herself 
forgotten; and the day that M. de Solis learned that 
Miss Harley had become the wife of another, he 
left his home and traveled all over the world to 
escape his own thoughts, to get away from his own 
suffering as a wounded animal flees from the hunter, 
hoping, by running, to shake off the pain of his 
wounds. But one only shakes off the drops of 
blood in such wild flights. The marquis had carried 
his sorrow about with him and exhausted his curi- 
osity in long voyages, in learned missions, or in self- 
imposed sojournings in the extreme orient. He had 
spent his time, had worn out his life, but his sorrows 
were not yet healed. Forgetfulness had not yet 
cicatrised his wounds, and when the doctor had 
spoken of Norton the marquis turned very pale. 
He had a sensation as of a band tightly closing 
around his heart. 

For it had happened, in order that the loss of Syl- 
via should be the more complete — it had happened, 
that the man who had made her his wife was, by the 
irony of fate, the being whom he had loved most 


38 


l’americaine. 


profoundly; one of those men who yields himself 
up to you, and to whom you yield yourself at the 
first glance, from the first grasp of the hand. 

Solis could not remember that Norton had ever 
spoken to him of Miss Harley. And yet these men, 
bound together in so close an intimacy, had ex- 
changed many confidences. Solis, recommended to 
Richard Norton by the representative of the United 
States at Paris, one of his old companions, had been 
the guest of Richard in some of the mining camps 
which the Frenchman wished to study; and their 
relations beginning thus by chance had been like 
iron hardened into steel by the action of fire — 
changed in the crucible of peril into a complete and 
devoted friendship. 

Moreover, true sympathetic attractions can not 
be explained. If they had seen each other for the 
first time in a parlor, they would have been friends 
just the same, supposing that they could have talked 
together in full liberty as they did in those long 
days at the mines, when Norton explained and Solis 
listened. Ah! the marquis remembered it only too 
well. Norton had never let him suspect that he 
knew Miss Harley. He did not know her then per- 
haps. He must have met her afterward, become 
enamored of her, and demanded her hand. Well, he 


l’americaine. 


39 


would know all these details as soon as he should 
have a chance to talk with Norton. He was in a 
feverish haste to see him again. 

To see him? or to see her? He dared not put to 
himself this question. But with that almost cruel 
faculty of intimate analysis, with which some souls 
are endowed, he felt that in his desire to see Norton 
there entered more of joy and, in his hope of finding 
Sylvia, more of dread. 

He had, moreover, traversed the road leading to 
the villa Norton, mechanically, as by a sort of in- 
stinct, without any reflection. He found himself 
before the door, ready to ring; indeed he had 
already rung the bell, when he asked himself, if he 
had not better take the train to Paris, and quit 
Trouville without seeing this man who had been his 
friend and this woman whom he had silently, timidly 
adored. 

He was still hesitating in this ante-chamber into 
which he had been introduced. He regretted that 
he had come, and was saying to himself that it would 
have been better for himself and her never to have 
reopened the past. The sound of a whistle traversed 
the ante-chamber like an order aboard ship, and the 
valet re-entered, asking “Monsieur the marquis” to 
follow him. De Solis, preceded by the servant, 


40 


l’americaine. 


mounted a stairway whose wooden baluster was 
richly carved and upon which were hung at intervals 
rare specimens of faience, in which the colors of the 
old Rouen pieces answered to the brownish tints of 
the plates in Mezzo — Arab. 

On the second floor of the villa, as luxurious as a 
hotel on the Champs-Elysees, Georges de Solis was 
confronted by a lackey, who ceremoniously opened 
the door of a vast working-room and study, whose 
windows looked out upon the sea. At the door he 
was met by a tall, bearded, smiling man, who, with 
hand outstretched, welcomed him in a stentorian 
voice, with a decidedly Yankee accent. 

“Well! what a piece of luck!” Norton’s voice 
sounded clear as a trumpet note. 

“Shake hands, old fellow, sit down. What good 
wind has blown you here?” 

The two men looked at each other a moment 
with that instinctive curiosity common to people, 
who, while questioning each other with the eyes, 
leap over the years which have passed since they 
last met. Georges de Solis forgot for a moment 
every other thought, and felt only a true pleasure in 
finding his friend Norton just as he had left him— a 
man, solid as if built of masonry, a large frame, with 
the shoulders of a caryatid and the wrists of a 


l’americaine. 


41 


wrestler. The brow, indicative of great will power, 
whose bony structure showed under the skin like 
carved stone, was shaded by hair of a reddish color 
beginning to turn gray at the temples; the mouth, 
energetic and frank; the long beard depending from 
the chin; the ears standing out from the head; the 
dress a little puritanical in style — a long coat closely 
buttoned over the great solid torso. Nothing in the 
appearance of the American had suffered change. 

In his turn Norton scanned the face of the mar- 
quis, with his grey eyes half hidden under his brist- 
ling brows, and said gaily. 

“ You are just the same!” 

“ Oh! no! I have more brown in my complexion 
and fewer hairs on my head. My travels — ” 

“And where do you come from?” 

“ From almost anywhere. From the devil!” 

“ I went to see you as soon as I arrived in Paris. 
Nobody at home! Your mother was in the country, 
and you — ” 

“ In Indo — China; but to-day, my mother, whom 
I found at Solis on my return, and myself have left 
Landes and I am trying to give the loved one some 
sea air and a little health. I might have gone 
to Biarritz, which is nearer Dax, but I chose to 
remain nearer Paris, where there are always chances 


42 


l’americaine. 


to sell and buy, to endeavor to sell one of my estates 
which will not bring as much as it cost. After that 
it is my intention to go to Solis and bury myself 
with my mother.” 

“ You will do me the honor to present me to her?” 
said Norton. 

“ With pleasure. She adores you, you know. 
She has made me tell her a hundred times, how 
you saved me from being burned alive the day your 
oil well took fire. I have often thought of that ad- 
venture. The first thing I remember after my res- 
cue, half suffocated, was seeing you with your hair 
burned off, as if your head had been shaved, and 
your whiskers singed to a cinder.” 

“ You see they have grown again,” said Norton 
laughing. “But do not speak of that time, dear 
Georges. If there is any one who, on that day saved 
the life of another, as they say in romances, it was 
you. Yes, you! It is true that I extricated you from 
the furnace into which a single false step would have 
made you fall, but you had come to warn me of my 
danger, my dear friend, and without your interven- 
tion I would have been buried beneath the heavy 
timbers and reduced to a cinder into the bargain. 
If you tell the stories of your travels to your mother 
in this way, she will only know the half. You are 


l’americaine. 


43 


too modest. I will have to interfere to make her 
know the truth. 

“Ah! well! Be it so,” said the marquis smiling. 
“We rendered each other a service, to save our lives. 
Let us divide the credit and say no more about it. 
Besides, the event is old. Five years ago! And do 
you know, Norton, I can say to you what you just 
now said to me, and with more truth: You have not 
changed — yes, you have grown younger.” 

“When we have passed beyond the forties, we 
should become more spirituelle, and then we ought 
to get younger. Oh! I am not the species of trapper 
you knew, living the life of a workman among 
laborers as I did over yonder. I — am, what shall I 
say— softened, refined, more effeminate, perhaps, 
to please the dear woman whom I have married.” 

Richard Norton had put into these few words an 
instinctive tenderness, and Solis much moved, 
yet entirely master of himself, and trying not to 
appear indifferent — interested on the contrary, as a 
friend should be in the happiness of a friend — de 
Solis felt that this man experienced a sort of violent 
need of speaking of the adored one. 

“It is true, then, that you are married?” said the 
marquis. 

“And to the best of creatures. How much I 


44 


l’americaine. 


regret that Mrs. Norton is out; she will be so happy 
to see you again.” 

“Ah!” said the young man, “Mrs. Norton does 
me the honor to remember me?” 

“Remember you, my dear! Why we often speak 
of you, very often.” 

De Solis tried to find some compliment, some 
form of thanks. He could think of nothing to say. 
Strange! what Norton had just said, instead of being 
agreeable, caused him suffering. She talked of him! 
He on the contrary kept her name in his memory, as 
in a sanctuary. He thought of her again and again 
and constantly, and never spoke of her to any one. 
And she spoke of him, indifferent no doubt, con- 
soled, happy! This memory which Sylvia had of him 
now, tortured him more even than silence and for- 
getfulness would have done. 

“She is the most charming of women,” added 
Norton; “but she is not at all well.” 

“Ah!” said M. de Solis. 

“Yes; it is because of her health that I have 
decided to establish myself in Paris. Dr. Fargeas 
works miracles when it comes to nervous disorders; 
Sylvia suffers from something of that character. Yes; 
she has inherited from her mother, the daughter 
of a Virginian, a great sportsman and especially a 


l’americaine. 


45 


high liver and hard drinker, and who died at last of 
gout — she has inherited from her mother an arthritic 
tendency. And if the maternal heredity had ended 
there, all would be well; but she communicated to 
her daughter an extreme, an unhealthy sensitiveness. 
The climate of New York, with its extremes of 
torrid heat and glacial cold, was not suited to her. 
One or two winters in Florida were not sufficient to 
restore her to health. And now I believe only in 
Dr. Fargeas. I have for Sylvia the superstition of 
Fargeas.” 

Instinctively Georges de Solis closed his eyes. 
That name, Sylvia, pronounced in his presence, for 
the first time in years, had a singular impression upon 
him. He saluted it with his eyelids, as a soldier 
ducks his head at the whistling of the first ball. 

Norton continued his confidences, speaking of 
Sylvia with the overflowing effusion of a man who 
really loves. Then he stopped, saying with deep 
emotion: 

“You see what a thing friendship is! You have 
hardly been here five minutes, my dear Solis, and I 
am telling you quite naturally what I should say to 
no one; what I only vaguely confess to myself. 
Let us speak no more of that. Let us talk about 
yourself.” 


46 


l’americaine. 


They were sitting face to face before the window, 
near a table, upon which, under paper weights, were 
piled dispatches, letters, pamphlets, ranged methodi- 
cally annotated and pinned together. 

“Have a cigar?” asked Norton. 

“Thank you; you know that I do not smoke.” 

“That is true. Well, what became of you for so , 
long a time?” 

Solis shook his head. “What has become of me? 
Nothing; I have traveled for recreation, going to 
Anam as I went to the United States and as I should 
have lounged on the boulevard.” 

“But with more profit to science; however, I 
read in the Revue an article on the colonization of 
the extreme East, which seemed to me to be very 
practical.” 

“And it was not necessary to go so far to write 
it. One can learn more at Paris even about remote 
countries than anywhere else. I have found friends 
at the club who knew as much as I, I assure you, of 
what I had seen at Tonquin. The telegraph tells 
them in ten lines and in two minutes what it took 
me two months to discover. And then the 
travel. It is very nice when you do not go, loaded 
with worry — memories — like so much baggage.” 

“Memories — your mother?” 


1 


l’americaine. 47 

“Ah! the dear saint !” said M. de Solis. “Her 
memory gave me courage. But there were others. 
But they are forgotten I hope — yes, left along the 
route, lost on the road, with my burnt powder 
and empty cartridges. I have come back with the 
fixed resolution of finishing with adventures and of 
growing old by my fireside, happy, like you — mar- 
ried, like you.” 

“Happy!” exclaimed Norton, nodding his head. 

“Come!” and the marquis tried to smile, after he 
had forced himself to choke down the memories 
which rose to his heart. “Come, Norton, do you 
know a young woman who wants a good fellow, a 
little saddened, but not morose; disenchanted on 
many points, not a pessimist, according to the pres- 
ent fashion? My cousin Berniere takes charge of 
that specialty, retaining faith enough, passion enough 
if need were, to commit some folly, and even to re- 
sign himself to a virtuous wisdom. My mother does 
not wish me to become a confirmed old bachelor. I 
ought to marry, I suppose. After all, the voyage to 
the chimney corner is the only one I have not made. 
Very well, it is agreed. I have some fear of mar- 
riage, as we fear lest the water be cold for a bath. 
But I have decided to swim. Have you any one 
who can teach me to swim, Norton?” 


48 


l’americaine. 


The American did not take his eyes from the 
marquis while the latter was speaking, for he saw 
that Solis jconcealed under this fictitious gayety 
some melancholy irony, some vague suffering, the 
resolution of a man who has a thirst for something 
new, because he wishes to forget the past. 

“Then to marry is for you to jump into the 
water. Well, that is complimentary to your swim- 
ming teacher,” said Norton. “Seriously, I do not 
know any one worthy of you. If I should see a 
remarkable young girl among our Americans — ” 

“Oh! no, not an American!” said Solis quickly. 

“Why not?” 

“I shall never marry an American.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I think that in marriage there is fric- 
tion enough arising from difference in tempera- 
ments, without adding those which would come from 
a difference in race.” 

The manner of the marquis was so serious that 
Richard Norton could not help smiling. 

“If my country women were to hear you they 
would want to tear your eyes out. They are pretty, 
exquisite, serious, and under an eccentric exterior 
are capable of the utmost devotion.” 

“I know that very well,” said Solis. “Moreover, 


l’americAine. 


49 


if you want to marry I cannot understand, I confess, 
why you should want to do it at hazard and as if it 
were a mere lottery.” 

“It matters not, since it is a matter of business,” 
said the marquis, his lips curved in an aggressive 
smile. The grey eyes of Norton never left him, as if 
the American was determined to divine the secret 
of this sadness which did not exist formerly in the 
spirit of Solis. 

“Business! business! I am certain, however, my 
dear Georges, that you do not care Tor the dowry 
your wife may bring you.” 

“No, absolutely!” 

“Especially as the custom of dowry is unknown 
in America, which takes away from the question of 
marriage that odor of money which is so noticeable 
in your France. You must confess that for a nation 
of shop-keepers, this contempt of bank-notes has a 
certain nobleness.” 

Solis did not reply for a moment. He was ab- 
sorbed in the contemplation of a strange looking 
clock on the mantelpiece, whose pendulum consisted 
of a steel pestle. “I was not dreaming,” he said,“ of 
criticising in the remotest degree, either your man- 
ners or your young ladies, when I said I should 
never marry an American girl— -any more than I 

4 


5o 


L AM ERI CAINE. 


intended to speak of a bargain when I pronounced 
that detestable word ‘business.’ I only say that 
when one has not married the woman he loves, he 
might as well leave to chance the care of making 
himself love the person whom he shall marry.” 

“Well, upon my word! That is a fine theory,” 
said Norton, laughing. 

“It is no theory; it is one of the thousand neces- 
sities to which life, such as we find it, reduces us. 

You have — you ” and the marquis spoke slowly, 

pronouncing his words one at a time, like a man 
walking with precaution upon the thinly frozen sur- 
face of some pond — “you have the happy fortune, 
without doubt, to have married for love.” 

He affected to look at the sea, which showed in 
the distance through the open window, but his eyes 
were furtively watching Norton’s face. 

‘I adore the girl whose hand I asked in marriage,” 
gravely answered the American. 

Solis replied in a louder voice: 

“I loved an exquisite woman and I never dared 
to tell her I loved her.” 

“And I repeat, why not?” 

“You were rich, very rich, and you could offer, 
along with your fortune, your name to whomsoever 
you pleased.” 


L AMERICAINE. 


51 


“Certainly.” 

“I v/as poor, compared to this young girl, and I 
could not, I dared not ask her to partake of an ex- 
istence which would have seemed meager to her 
compared with that which she had led, up to that 
time, in her father’s house. My love called loudly 
upon me to speak, but my pride bade me be silent.” 

“It is a pity this young woman was not a Yankee. 
You would not have been embarrassed in that case. 
I know a young girl whose father has five hundred 
thousand dollars a year income, who married a 
Tennessee preacher, whose only fortune was his 
Bible and saddle-bags. She is very happy. Bah! 
my dear Georges, a woman consoles for a woman. 
There is a Spanish proverb which says: ‘ The juice 
of the mulberry will take out the mulberry stain.’ 
You will see at my house at the Parc Monceau, 
American women of all styles, brunettes, blondes, 
auburn-haired, delicious, intoxicating, charming; and 
it may be, in spite of your objections to the race, 
that one of them may efface the image of your 
country woman.” 

“Perhaps,” answered M. de Solis. 

Then, still looking at the clock, which was a true 
work of art, he added: 

“I do not think so.” 


5 ^ 


l’americaine. 


The American shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Oh! we never believe such things until the day 
we discover that next to the rapidity with which we 
forget those living, who have disappeared from our 
lives, is the rapidity with which we forget sentiments 
which we thought were eternal. And we must live. 
Forward, always forward, is our national device, and 
it is my private motto. I do not spend my life in 
maundering over sentimental phantoms.” 

M. de Solis was looking about him while Norton 
was speaking, and he felt — in finding himself there 
at Trouville in the cabinet of the American, so 
similar to a New York office — the sensation of a 
voyage, the impression of something exotic. Norton 
had brought his private mark, the stamp of his 
personal tastes even, to this house on the coast of 
Normandy. This atelier, in the Norman villa, had 
indeed a special character. In the midst of the 
luxurious and fanciful structure, and of these speci- 
mens of bric-a-brac which reminded one of the Hotel 
rue Rembrandt, this room with its severe aspect — 
enlivened only by the glimpse of the sea, caught 
through the open window — this great working room 
resembled the shop of an artisan. There were some 
pictures, but not many. By the side of a Cavalier 
by Velasquez, there was a water color, in which upon 


l’americaine. 


53 


an unnaturally blue sea there was represented a 
yacht bearing the name Sylvia. The picture was 
signed by an American artist. Side by side with 
this picture, their frames almost touching, was 
another, a landscape, where, in the shadow of some 
gigantic pines,' some of which were hewed down and 
already cut into lengths, stood a pioneer cabin, 
from whose chimney softly curled a thin column of 
blue smoke, light as the sigh of an idyl. It was the 
home of the elder Norton, Richard’s father. The 
cabin, where so often the old man had, in the even- 
ing, by the light of an oil lamp, read his Bible to his 
five children, seated around a table on which was 
spread the frugal meal, and where, against the wall, 
stood the glittering axe of this woodcutter. It was a 
picture which Richard carried wherever he went, 
hanging it over his head, as the Russian peasant 
hangs the holy icon in his isba. Norton’s whole 
life was bound up in these two pictures. The log 
hut was the symbol of the family. The elder Nor- 
ton was lying now beneath a marble monument 
bearing his name, a name as glorious as that of the 
founder of a dynasty — Abraham Norton. The first 
brought to his mind the father, the mother, with 
her happy smile; the sisters, now married; and the 
two brothers, both killed during the war of seces- 


54 


L AMERICAINE. 


sion, fighting under the starry flag. The yacht 
represented his present life, the profound love of 
an existence, the only love, the recompense of a life 
of toil, the adored wife, the dear Sylvia. 

Below these pictures were some small ebony 
book-cases, bringing within easy reach of the own- 
er’s hand a small but select collection of books, 
treatises on physics, chemistry or morals, that chem- 
istry of the soul. On an etagere were some 
minerals labeled in red ink, gold ore, or specimens 
of coal. There was the model of a locomotive, a 
jewel of mechanism, by the side of a telephone. 
Then on the mantel, like the seal of the American- 
ism of the master, the characteristic clock, already 
mentioned, whose pendulum was a steel pestle, ris- 
ing and falling with the regularity of a chronometer, 
and whose every movement marked a second, as if 
Norton preferred the time thus hammered out of 
eternity by his utilitarian clock, to the light tic-tac 
of the European time-piece. 

This clock, which M. de Solis was staring at, 
seemed to say in its American diction, “Go ahead , go 
aheadT and its pestle of steel, from whose burnished 
surface the rays of light w r ere reflected, seemed to 
pound and crush what Richard Norton called the 
“phantoms of sentiment,” 


l’americaine. 


55 


“What you say does not surprise me,” said the 
marquis. “Your fashion of looking at life is well 
represented in your clock there. It does not mark 
the lapse of time; it crushes it. The people of Hol- 
land, who were, however, very practical, gave to 
their clocks a character of poetry which suggested 
the dream world, the fantastic. They showed boats 
oscillating at each second; wind-mills turning their 
long arms, and then disappearing from minute to 
minute; fishermen drawing in some silvered fish, 
and the moon, the pale moon rising upon chimerical, 
and almost Chinese landscapes, as can be seen at 
Saardam. But these landscapes and these wind- 
mills were for the poor people shut up in their huts 
by the frozen Zuyder Zee, a window open upon the 
ideal, and, in the smoke of their pipes they saw 
again their past lives, their travels, while the tic-tac 
of the pendulum, sounding regularly, soothed them 
in their silent reveries like a healthful sleep. You 
make of your pendulums mortar pestles, or mechan- 
ical wheels. And in looking at that pestle which 
rises and falls, and rises again to fall again forever, 
I instinctively think of all that is suppressed, de- 
based and crushed in modern life. It seems to me 
that we should idealize these clocks, these markers 


l’americaine. 


56 

of fleeting time, as tombs are decorated, the better 
to mask death with poetry and flowers.” 

“And I,” said Norton, “think, and I repeat to 
you, that we should show life, and celebrate it as it 
is, with its truths, its asperities, its pestles of all sorts, 
that we may breast it, conquer it and make it lov- 
able.’ 

The marquis, still seated, looked for a moment 
at this man carved from heart of oak, and who 
stood there, his large hands resting on the mantel, 
contemplating him with an expression at once joyous 
and full of defiance — defiance of fate. 

“Come,” said M. de Solis. “I see that if you 
have so strong a bias against sentiment, it is because 
you have found the reality of happiness.” 

“I confess that I should be an ingrate to com- 
plain, and yet — ” 

“And yet!” repeated Solis. 

A melancholy shadow darkened the hard, osseous 
brow of Norton, as he said: 

“My poor friend, everybody has his sorrows and 
anxieties. I was alluding to my own a moment ago. 
I have found, I, who have not and never had the air 
of a hero of romance, an ideal creature, and at the 
same time the best of wives. I married a young 
woman — you have seen little of her, but you know 


l’americaine. 


57 


her, a choice soul, superior in every way. I love 
her from the bottom of my heart. I would give in 
a lump all I possess only to see her smile, and I 
would go to work afterward, valiantly, to gain for 
her some new luxury. Well, my dear, all thus happi- 
ness, all this semblance of perfect felicity, which, 
certainly for the people who do not know me, for 
the beggars, the adventurers, the indifferent, the 
counsellors, the reporters who speak until I am irri- 
tated, of the Millionaire Norton” — Richard smiled — 
“all this apparent enjoyment, which, for the Paris- 
ians, makes of me a privileged person to be envied 
from all points of view; all this, Solis, even this 
chance for which I thank fate, does not change the 
brutal truth. I am unhappy; I am sad, and at the 
bottom — at the very bottom of my soul — Shall I 
make a full breast of it, in spite of my love of strife 
and of work, and of all that makes up life, the true 
life, the useful, robust, generous life? Well, my 
dear, I am not happy.” 

“Not happy!” 

“Yes, it seems to me, if I may say so, that all this 
happiness hangs as it were by a thread. I have all 
the terrors of the superstitious. Rather romantic 
eh? for your friend Norton, for a Yankee, and in 
spite of that utilitarian pendulum which displeases 


58 . 


l’americaine. 


you so much. There is romance everywhere, my 
good Solis, as my experience proves. Would to God 
that my anxiety were only a romance. But no, Sylvia 
is ill.” 

“Sylvia,” repeated the marquis, giving to the 
name an expression of singular emotion, which Nor- 
ton did not seem to notice. 

“She is ill, I have said, either from an affection 
of the heart or of the nerves; who knows? It is a 
nervous affection, some trouble in the circulation of 
the blood, a menace of embolism — to use the diag- 
nosis of Dr. Fargeas — a shrinking of the mitral valve; 
that is the scientific term, and it is that which poisons 
the joy I have in feeling myself master of my life, 
recompensed for my labor, rich and free, but with a 
menace before me, an obstacle, a wall — yes, as if it 
were the wall of a cemetery.” 

Now, Solis passed through a new phase of ex- 
perience, and a cruel satisfaction entered his heart 
while he silently listened to Richard Norton, con- 
fiding to him his sorrows and doubts. Yes, little by 
little the American allowed his innermost thoughts 
to be read, his life to be penetrated; and in this inti- 
mate talk with his friend, he mechanically told how 
his marriage with Miss Harley had come about. A 
dozen times Georges was on the point of stopping 


l’americaine. 


59 


this flow of confidence, but he felt a bitter consola- 
tion in knowing, in learning from the lips of the hus- 
band himself that there was even from the morrow 
of this union a deception and resultant suffering. 

“I had often met at her father’s,” said Norton, 
“the young girl whom I was afterward to marry. She 
was sad, pensive and very serious. It was by these 
characteristics she won me. I am neither pensive 
nor melancholy. Contraries attract. Like you, 
however, I hesitated to declare myself, not because 
of my fortune, heavens, no! but because of her intel- 
ligence and beauty, of that grace which did not 
seem made to be touched by my rude wood-chopper’s 
hands. Then, one day finding her more melancholy 
than usual, I felt myself more moved and more elo- 
quent, without intending it — I asked her if she 
would not confide her sorrow — for she had one — to 
one who would share it, I told her that I asked 
nothing in the world except to devote myself to 
her. It appears she divined that I was not lying. Her 
father was my advocate. He pleaded my cause 
and gained it. And so we were married.” 

“A love marriage,” said Solis, taking a malicious 
pleasure in thrusting the steel into his friend’s 
heart. 

“Love on the one side and friendship on the 


6o 


l’americaine. 


other,” answered Norton, whom the question rend- 
ered serious. 

“But on both sides a confidence the most com- 
plete, the most profound. Perhaps on her part there 
was haste to marry, not to hesitate any longer — who 
knows? To forget perhaps,” he added, as if to him- 
self. “But,” and his voice became firmer, “we are 
accustomed to rapid unions and decisions, and the 
family relation with us is not the worse for it. Be- 
sides, a word spoken from the heart before a minis- 
ter of the Gospel, who blesses two souls in the name 
of God — even in the coldness and informality of this 
ceremony, there is a gravity and simplicity which 
have a character of grandeur, and which please 
me ” 

“And where is the poetry of it?” asked Solis, 
pointing to the pendulum. 

“Oh! poetry is everywhere, where there is true 
love. When she whom I loved was given me I was 
mad with joy, drunken with hope. I was happy. 
My dear, happiness is poetry.” 

“Perhaps it is, indeed, the best kind,” said the 
marquis, who had become very pale. “And after- 
ward?” 

“Afterward?” Norton hesitated a moment. 
“Afterward? Ah! human idyls do not last long. 


l’americaine. 


6 1 


The first trial for my young wife was the death of 
her father. He was ruined, poor man, before I 
knew that he was embarrassed in his business; he 
had so much pride in his commercial honor — and 
before I could come to his assistance.” 

“Why did you not learn of the condition of his 
business at the moment of your marriage — from the 
contract?” 

“The contract! What contract?” and Norton 
laughed. “Oh! we have no such discussions before 
a notary of lovers’ interests as you have. The Amer- 
ican marries the woman he loves without examining 
the code, and undertakes to make her happy with- 
out having a civil officer impose upon him the obli- 
gation to do so, in a treatise as complicated as a 
legal process. She brings him for dowry her beauty, 
he for dowry his courage. They commend them- 
selves to God and begin life’s journey. Their parents 
have toiled, amassed and grown old. It is not the 
time to demand an account of their fortune and to 
diminish it. They can pass their last days, the dear 
loved ones, without depriving themselves of any- 
thing, living on what they have hardly and honestly 
gained. If they can still enjoy their fortune, so 
much the better for them. They have conquered, 
and may consume it if they like. It is their business. 


62 


l’americaine. 


My wife was no more interested in knowing whether 
her father would leave her a dollar than I was in 
calculating what inheritance I might claim, one day 
or other. And this is our frightful Yankee mercan- 
tile spirit, the worship of the dollar, of which so 
much has been said. Whatever it was — whether 
this catastrophe has saddened my wife, or whether 
some other grief lies concealed in her heart — since 
then the health of Mrs. Norton has troubled me, 
and I am more anxious to know what Dr. Fargeas 
thinks of her condition than to know the quotations 
of my oil stocks in New York and Chicago.” 

“And,” asked Solis, perhaps to give the conver- 
sation a more cheerful turn, “you continue to man- 
age from your Paris office those large movements 
which must demand a constant surveillance ?” 

Norton again smiled, his strong sound teeth 
shqwing through his yellow beard. “Oh, fear nothing, 
my dear Solis, a Yankee will lose nothing of his 
rights. The trans-Atlantic cable keeps me as well 
informed of my business, here in the Hotel rue 
Rembrandt, or in this villa of Normandy, as if I 
were seated in in my New York office. I am an 
American of Paris, but to day there is no longer any 
Paris or America; or rather, to flatter your chauvin- 
ism, the universe is only a suburb of Paris, and you 


l’americaine. 


63 


prove it when you return from Anam, as one used to 
come back from Saint-Cloud or Bougival.” 

“And I am enchanted to find you here, and to 
warm my heart by the fires of your courage, my 
dear Norton, but — ” and his voice, which he tried to 
render firm, trembled a little — “ sorry to know that 
you are not entirely happy.” 

“Bah!” said Norton, “ if you know perfect hap- 
piness, tell me where the fabulous bird has made its 
nest; I would have that nest mounted in topazes. 
But above all, not a word of this to Mrs. Norton 
when you see her.” 

“Not a word, I promise you.” The American, 
while talking, had touched the ivory button of an 
electric bell. 

“See if Mrs. Norton has returned,” he said to a 
valet who had promptly appeared, and who bent his 
head in response. 

Solis was standing, looking at Norton whose tall 
form showed against the horizon. The sky was clear, 
and the long roll of the breakers could be heard 
from the distant beach. 

He was asking himself why he had come, and if 
he ought not even now to fly, never to return. In a 
few moments he would see Sylvia again. The 
lackey, whose steps still resounded in the ante- 


64 


l’americaine. 


chamber, had gone to advise Mrs. Norton of his 
presence. He was about to appear before her — and 
at this interview, after so many years, her husband 
would be present. It would take place immediately 
perhaps. 

A silence fell between these two who had just 
felt so much pleasure in meeting again, and the con- 
versation, a moment ago so intimate and full of 
confidences, ran upon commonplaces, as if, suddenly, 
these friends had nothing more to say to each other. 

“Ah, my dear Solis, will you be good enough to 
be present this evening at a little concert given by 
Mrs. Norton? You will see the handsome Miss 
Dickson and Miss Offenburger, who is also adorable. 
Oh! we have very good music, I assure you. All 
Americans do not play Mozart as if their hands 
were a pair of tongs. My wife is an excellent 
musician, and the program is very select. I know 
very well that you would not come for the program. 
Would madame, your mother, do us the favor to 
accompany you? I ask pardon for the suddenness 
of this invitation, but my excuse must be that I did 
not know you were in Trouville.” 

“I shall be charmed to come this evening, though 
I am a little uncivilized,” said the marquis. “As to 
my mother, do not count on her. She does not like 


l’americaine. 


65 


a crowd. And I am not sure that she will pardon 
you for taking her son from her for one evening.” 

“At seven o’clock then? my dear Solis.” 

“No, I shall not be able to dine with you. I will 
come later; I have promised the dear mother to be 
absent from her as little as possible, for the first 
month after my return, and I dine alone with her. 
Yes, we sit there opposite each other like two 
lovers.” 

“And you are right. Perhaps it is this love only 
which never is deceived. I shall do myself the 
honor to visit your mother to-morrow, and I shall 
thank her for having allowed you to come to us for 
a little while this evening.” 

The marquis felt in the accent which Norton 
placed upon these words, a more cruel bitterness 
than he had manifested in his previous conversation, 
and with his clear eyes he studied his friend to read 
if possible his sorrowful thought. 

But the domestic was knocking at the door, and 
at a word from Norton he entered. 

“Madame?” asked the American. 

“Madame is still absent. Miss Meredith came in 
just now alone.” 

“Very well,” said Richard, with that sudden and 

masculine gayety which contrasted sharply with his 

5 


66 


l’americaine. 


rare moments of melancholy. “My dear Solis, you 
will at least see my niece.” 

And the domestic having retired: 

“Ah! my dear, you talk of marriage. The young 
girl you have dreamed of, my friend, your ideal, 
good as gold, loyal as her word, is my niece. If she 
were not an American she would be exactly what 
you want.” 

Norton was about to go on. He stopped. A 
voice, clear, joyous, a soft caressing voice, a voice 
with a pure French accent, was saying at the 
door: 

“Am I indiscreet?” 

And Solis saw standing there, as if afraid to 
enter, a tall young woman, elegant and slenderly 
built whose black, sparkling eyes, illuminating a fine 
but rather pale face, struck him at once. She wore 
a gray gown and a light wrap, which, slipping from 
her shoulders, enveloped her slender waist like a 
girdle. Upon her brown hair, which curled lightly, 
was placed a little hat, almost severely simple, but 
coquettishly worn. There was, in this fine being, in 
this dress, in the pretty smile, in the little hands en- 
cased in Suedish gloves, something which betokened 
a girl of breeding, softened, however, by a certain 
insouciance of manner — the gay frankness of the 


L AMERICAINE. 


6 ; 


grisette mingled with the haughty bearing of the 
patrician. 

Miss Meredith, on a gesture of Norton, stepped 
forward and saluted M. de Solis and waited until 
her uncle should present the marquis. Then at the 
name of Solis, she responded with a gracious word 
without any false timidity. She knew the marquis 
very well. 

“My uncle Richard has often spoken of you, sir. I 
did not have the pleasure of seeing you in America. 
I am charmed, knowing you to be one of my uncle’s 
best friends, to be able to do so in France.” 

It was in all its artless simplicity, and without 
formality, the welcome of a hostess receiving a 
friend, and the young girl seemed to be a woman 
putting a guest at his ease. Solis was accustomed 
to this exotic freedom of manner, which yet ap- 
peared to him a little unexpected and bizarre in 
France. But from this young and loyal being there 
beamed a particular charm, the seduction of the eyes 
without sadness, of the lips without bitterness, of the 
smile without irony, of this beautiful girl of twenty 
years. 

“Did you leave Sylvia walking?” 

“No, uncle; I left her at the Princess de Louver- 
chal’s. Madame Louverchal has an auction at her 


68 


l’americaine. 


villa for the benefit of the fishermen ruined by the 
storm in January. Sylvia is emptying her boxes and 
drawers. If she does not send all these playthings, 
albums and tapestries to the poor, she will fill the 
house with them, I warn you.” 

“Oh! I am not worried,” said Norton. “She will 
send them to the poor.” 

M. de Solis had taken his hat and was making a 
hasty bow, before taking his leave. 

“What! Are you going?” said Norton. 

“ I hope I am not chasing you away,” said Miss 
Meredith, smiling. 

“Oh, no, miss. But though I am rusticating here, 
I have some matters which need my attention — a 
report to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, a com- 
munication on the establishments at Hanoi. And 
then I must not waste Mr. Norton’s time; it is pre- 
cious, even at Trouville.” 

“And never so well employed as when I am 
devoting it to you, my dear Georges. We shall see 
you this evening, shall we not? It is a promise?” 

“ With pleasure,” said the marquis, though this 
assent cost him an effort. 

He took Norton’s extended hand, that hard, bony 
hand, whose palm showed more than one callous; 
saluted Miss Meredith, and left, accompanied by 


l’americaine. 


69 


Richard, who, with one hand laid lightly upon his 
shoulder, guided him with the familiar gesture of an 
elder caressingly leading a younger brother. 

“Well, Eva,” asked Norton, when he re-entered, 
“how do you like the marquis?” 

The young girl was now, with her pretty un- 
gloved fingers, setting her watch by the famous 
clock of the pestle pendulum. 

“How do I like him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh! well.” 

“Very well?” 

“Very well, if you like.” 

“A true nobleman!” 

“Yes, and a gentleman.” 

“Well,” said Norton laughing, “you see this 
charming young man, estimable, distinguished, 
worthy and intellectual, has just promised me that 
he will never, never marry an American girl.” 

Miss Meredith had put her watch in its fob. 
She looked at her uncle a moment, and then burst- 
ing into a ringing laugh, the laugh of free-hearted 
youth, she said, “Truly? He has promised that? 
Well, then, he is a fool.” 


CHAPTER III. 


The dinner at Norton’s had long been finished, 
and Miss Eva was pouring the tea. With her hand- 
some, finely formed hands she was passing the 
Sevres cups to her uncle’s guests, while, surrounded 
by a group comprising M. de Berniere, Dr. Fargeas 
and a stout man, already becoming gray, and who 
was laughing a good deal, Miss Arabella Dickson 
was flirting at the same time with the music and 
with her attendant cavaliers. Norton was smoking 
a cigar and looking at the sea while talking with an 
immense personage as tall as a poplar. This was 
Colonel Dickson, the distinguished father of the fair 
Arabella. He was so tall, with his pointed head, 
long reddish colored beard, streaked with gray, 
streaming, as it were, from a high white collar, of a 
military stiffness; he was so long, so slender, that, 
seeing the smoke of a cigar issuing from the upper 
termination of his body, one might take him, in the 
obscurity, for the chimney of some factory in active 
eruption. His wife, Mrs. Colonel Dickson, enor- 
mous and fat, spread out upon a lounge, was flavor- 
ing the tea which Miss Meredith had brought her, 


l’americaine. 


71 

with some cognac, and was watching, with her big, 
dreamy blue eyes, the group, formed yonder under 
the immense shade of a lamp. This group was 
composed of her Arabella, surrounded by gentlemen 
in evening dress, among whom was that young Bef- 
niere, who, they said, was an eligible match. 

In a corner of the parlor, opening upon a horizon 
spangled with stars, and upon a long line of golden 
points, seen at a distance, in the clear night and 
which were the lights of Havre — in the angle of the 
room, under some large tropical plants, with fan- 
shaped foliage green and fresh, Sylvia was talking 
with Mrs. Montgomery, while a pretty girl, young, 
brunette with the features and the beautiful golden 
red complexion of a Jewess, was turning the leaves 
of an album and talking medicine with Dr. Fargeas, 
who appeared to be astonished at her erudition. 

“That Mademoiselle Offenburger is pretty,” 
Liliane Montgomery had just remarked to Mrs. Nor- 
ton. 

“Very pretty.” 

“And so learned! oh! so learned! She is putting 
the doctor through a baccalaureate examination!” 

Mrs. Colonel Dickson, who kept staring at her 
daughter and Mademoiselle Offenburger by turns, 
stopped occasionally to stir her tea with a quick 


72 


l’americaine. 


nervous motion. With her mother’s instinct, she 
felt that the daughter of the banker, the fat Mr. 
Offenburger who was laughing his guttural laugh 
while bending over Miss Arabella’s music — yes, she 
felt that this pretty little German Jewess was setting 
her cap for M. de Berniere, who, for the moment, 
did not seem to be paying any attention to her. 

Berniere was a handsome fellow, amiable, witty, 
and above all a viscount! What a husband he would 
be for Arabella! He was one of the two or three 
hundred possible candidates whom the beautiful 
American had already encountered on the beach. 
He pleased Mrs. Dickson particularly, because he 
was a pessimist, and she, having experienced decep- 
tions, also found that life was bitter, very bitter. 
That may have been why she liked her tea so very 
sw'eet that she took it in the shape of sweetened 
brandy. 

It was not the first time that the colonel's wife 
had noticed Mademoiselle Offenburger’s sly glances 
at M. de Berniere. Certainly the young viscount was 
not displeasing to the pretty Jewess, and as to Ber- 
niere himself — but Mrs. Dickson counted on Ara- 
bella’s fine shoulders, most admirable shoulders for 
a girl of twenty. 

Besides, in comparing Arabella with Made- 


l’americaine. 


73 


moiselle Offenburger, Mrs. Dickson was not troubled. 
Standing under the lamp near the doctor, Helene 
Offenburger was exquisitely pretty with her large, 
soft dark eyes, veiled with lashes like silken lace, 
her ripe, red lips, her Arab profile, her small, pink 
shell-like ears, showing under heavy bands of raven 
hair; but Arabella, sitting at the piano, tall, superb, 
a head like that of a Greek statue poised upon 
shoulders of a whiteness so dazzling that the light of 
the candles scarcely added a faint roseate glow — this 
admirable Arabella, crowned with a wealth of golden, 
silky hair, was simply irresistible. 

Yes, the insolent beauty of Arabella, her perfect 
health, her magnificent force, cast the pretty Jewess 
into the shade as soon as one looked at her, so 
dumpy, insignificant and swarthy did the latter ap- 
pear in comparison with that block of living marble. 

As to' Eva, the colonel’s wife did not take her 
into consideration. Miss Meredith came and went, 
light as a bird, laughing, leaving the sofa where 
Sylvia and Liliane were talking, going to the piano 
where Arabella was alternating between operatic 
airs and American ballads, to the window where 
Norton was smoking with the colonel, always the 
gay, cheerful girl, casting here and there a sparkle 
of wit or a burst of gayety. Indeed! This brunette 


7 4 


l’americaine. 


Miss Eva, slender and shapely, mocking, mirth pro- 
voking, could not, according to the difficult stand- 
ard which Mrs. Dickson had set up for herself, enter 
the lists with Mademoiselle Offenburger and Ara- 
bella. To the colonel’s wife she seemed a mere 
figurante in this parlor, where Miss Dickson was 
evidently playing the leading role. And besides, 
Mrs. Dickson attached much importance to the fact 
that M. de Berniere was giving Miss Eva no notice 
— no notice at all. 

Of course, with the colonel’s wife, married women 
did not count, any more than Eva did, or than married 
men. She might, however, have admired the two 
women who were talking opposite her — Sylvia Norton 
and Mrs. Montgomery. The light of a side lamp, 
placed above Liliane, cast a pearly lustre upon her 
bare arms, round and youthful looking, and sub- 
merged in a silken sheen the pale shoulders, the white 
neck, and the head with its mass of reddish blond 
hair, caught back in a single coil. She was a sort of 
second edition of Arabella. She had the same inso- 
lent beauty, with more embonpoint, a more specific 
vitality, something more mature and attractive. 
“Snow which does not suggest the sensation of 
cold,’’ M. de Berniere had said of her one evening. 

And by the side of Liliane Montgomery sat Syl- 


l’americaine. 


75 


via Norton — refined, fragile, a sort of a New York 
Parisienne — seductive in a certain saddened charm, 
a melancholy sweetness; in the vague tenderness of 
her eyes, which seemed to be looking far away in 
the direction of the coast, at the lights of Havre 
and the sky. She was charming, with her air of suf- 
fering. She was beautiful in her black costume of 
satin, whose sombre hue set off the striking fairness 
of her virgin-like face and of her languid looking 
hands. She seemed to those who saw her in her 
tender dignity to wear mourning for something 
disappeared, broken, vanished. 

These two women, of character so different, were 
very fond of each other, perhaps because the con- 
trast in their natures had, from the first day of their 
acquaintance, drawn them together. 

Liliane was the only person in France whom 
Mrs. Norton could call friend. In their common 
memories they again saw themselves playing 
together as children in New York; exchanging vows 
of love and constancy as young girls, and when 
separated for life — Liliane having married an artist, 
and Sylvia Harley having become the wife of 
Richard Norton — the two friends had followed the 
hazards of a new life, and confidential letters had 
taken the place of the old time spoken confidences. 


76 


l’americaine. 


Then had come long silences, growing out of a more 
complete separation, for Liliane had gone to Europe 
with her first husband, and Sylvia had remained in 
the United States with Norton. There had been a 
forced cessation of the relations of friendship 
between them, for Sylvia allowed the days to suc- 
ceed each other in the absolute calm of inaction, 
while Liliane was carried like thistle-down upon the 
wind of every caprice, enchanted with the active 
and super-excited life of the women of fashion, whom 
she encountered in the gay capital; barely stopping 
long enough in Paris to attend the opening of the 
Salon, or the races, and then off the next day for 
Dinard, returning only to take the first sleeper for 
Menton or Pau. 

For her first husband, the artist Harrison, Lilian 
— she had Gallicized her name and now signed it 
Liliane — cared nothing; she never spoke of him and 
tried to felicitate herself upon having been divorced 
from him, and upon bearing the name of her second 
husband, Montgomery, which gave her the illusion 
of being distinguished by one of the greatest names 
of France. This name, of whose better authenticity 
she would have been glad, she paraded at the Tues- 
days of the Comedie Francaise, at Canterets, at 
Biarritz, at the flower festivals at Nice, under the 


l’americaine. 


77 


gay showers of Italian confetti , that snow of the Car- 
nival. She had just returned from her winter quar- 
ters, when Mr. Montgomery, her husband, announced 
that Mr. and Mrs. Norton had installed themselves 
in the hotel built by the sugar-refiner Bonivet. It 
had been sold to the Duchesse d’Escard and finally 
bought for three million francs net by Richard Nor- 
ton, who had straightway put into it works of art 
worth four or five millions more. Montgomery, on 
more than one occasion, had been the associate of 
Norton, and so it happened that affection united the 
women whose husbands were allied by interest and 
esteem. 

Upon her return to Paris, two months before this 
sojourn atTrouville, Liliane paid a visit to Mrs. Nor- 
ton. She was overflowing with joy at finding her 
old friend and, the first embraces over, questioned 
her, looked fondly at her, and found her as beautiful 
as ever, though with a somewhat frail beauty; with 
features a little too much refined, but with an air at 
once soft and gentle. Liliane, who was tall and 
splendid looking, with golden hair, slender waist, 
large shoulders and a superb neck, asked Sylvia, 
almost in the first breath: “How do I look? Haven’t 
I grown a little too stout? I exercise like an 
athlete to prevent myself from becoming too large. 


78 


l’americaine. 


But what would you have? I am twenty-five. I 
should be very sorry to see myself becoming fat.” 

In this first meeting, in the delightful abandon 
of these intimate conversations, there was a renewal 
of the old friendship, in which the threads of the 
past, like the fibers of an amputated limb, were all 
reunited, and the two friends found each other just 
as they had been in the past; but this time they 
did not exchange their dreams, but their memories 
and experiences. Both had still in mind this first 
conversation, the confidences exchanged, which 
more than once recurred to Sylvia and alarmed 
her. - 

“You are the first person I have met in Paris who 
has caused me a pleasure, my dear Liliane,” repeated 
Sylvia. 

“That is complimentary for the Parisians,” said 
Mrs. Montgomery, laughing. 

“I had no reference to them, since I do not know 
them,” added Sylvia, sadly. 

Certain that Mrs. Norton, by a reception, a con- 
cert, a fete, some noteworthy gathering or other — 
all of which Liliane loved — would announce her 
candidacy for a royal place in the gay Parisian 
society, a pre-eminence which sometimes lasts for a 
whole season, and which has for its Moniteurs officiate 


l’americaine. 


79 


the Jenkinses of society, Mrs. Montgomery broached 
the interesting question at their very first interview. 

“My dear Sylvia, if you do not know the Parisians 
so much the more pleasure there is in store for you. It 
is an amusing acquaintance to make. They are very 
gay, very artful! A little stiff, perhaps. Oh, you 
can not imagine it, my dear! Paris becoming Eng- 
lish! That reminds me of London. If it were not 
for we Americans and the money we scatter there 
broadcast, along with a little of our new-world 
vivacity, a residence there would be as tiresome as 
in Germany.” 

“Then Paris pleases you?” 

“Very much; since I took Mr. Montgomery there, 
I have not had a dull moment, and yet ” 

Liliane had stopped, and she sighed as if her 
heart were full of some nameless sorrow. 

“And yet, what?” asked Sylvia. 

“Nothing. You are happy, Sylvia. You have a 
husband entirely — high-minded.” 

“Yes?” 

“I say that Richard Norton is considerable of a 
man. He is not a prince, he is not a duke. That is 
all he lacks to be perfect. But he is charming; yes, 
charming! You ought to love him greatly.” 

There was in this amusing chatter of the pretty 


8o 


l’americaine. 


Mrs. Montgomery a good humor so striking, an 
atmosphere of happiness, and as it were a sort of 
show of well-being so insolent that Sylvia felt her 
melancholy charmed away by it. Liliane’s talk had 
much the same effect upon the young woman as a 
cordial with the sparkling life of champagne. Syl- 
via found her, after her divorce, the same person she 
had known as a young girl, who used to dream of 
wearing a crown, who knew by heart the. list of 
nobility for nearly all the countries of Europe, and 
who once seriously debated with herself the question 
whether she should not ask her father to buy the 
article thus advertised in the New York Herald: 

“For Sale — The blason and use of the name of an 
aristocratic family of Europe, with the history of 
said family, for $1,100. Address, Rudolph Smith, 
care of L. Moeser, 142 Smithfield St., Pittsburg.” 

It was interesting to see how Liliane’s father, per- 
meated to the marrow of his bones by democratic 
sentiment, used to talk about this false aristocracy 
of Europe, the title to which could be bought for 
so many dollars, as if it were a question of so 
many boxes of coffee. Influenced by these senti- 
ments, Liliane, who loved and respected her father, 
said nothing of her dreams of future nobility, but 
Sylvia had more than once surprised her reading 


l’americaine. 


8i 


the Inter-Ocean , that journal which publishes lists of 
the eligible bachelors of the city with descriptions of 
their persons, their social relations, their business 
affairs, their habits and other interesting items of 
the like nature, for the delectation of ladies matri- 
monially inclined. And when Sylvia asked her 
friend what she sought in that newspaper, Liliane 
would answer laughing: 

“I? A husband titled like a Montmorency!” 

The love or passion, rather — a fire of strawwhich 
soon vanished in smoke — which she had for Harri- 
son, had, at first, the effect to make her forget her 
fever for nobiliary honors — a fever not uncommon 
in the republic of King Cotton. But after being 
divorced in a burst of anger, and remarried for 
reasons of convenance, because Montgomery was rich 
and seemed to be fondly devoted to her, Liliane, in 
spite of herself came back to the dreams of her girl- 
hood, and so she reproached Richard Norton as she 
had reproached poor Montgomery, for not being a 
prince or a duke. 

“But, my dear Sylvia, in spite of the fact that he 
is neither prince nor duke, you love him?” 

“Why should I not be grateful for all he does 
for me?” answered Sylvia. “Mr. Norton does not 

like Paris, yet he has come here because he thinks 

6 


82 


l’americaine. 


that Dr. Fargeas alone can cure me of this species 
of nervous disorder which is undermining my 
health, a sort of cardiac affection, I do not know 
exactly what. Mr. Norton is full of cares for his 
business in New York, and yet he has left all for 
this new life in France, which he is trying to make 
as brilliant and enviable as possible for me. I know 
no better man, no more devoted friend, no more 
loyal heart.” 

Liliane listened, examining Sylvia with a slight 
mocking smile. 

“Oh! what you say is terrible, simply terrible,” 
she said. 

“Terrible? How terrible? I am afraid you are as 
fond of mocking as ever, my dear Liliane.” 

“Fond of mocking? Not at all. But, my poor 
friend, your way of eulogizing your husband makes 
me think how I talk about mine. He is very nice 
my good Montgomery, very devoted; he is always 
on the watch to satisfy the slightest of my caprices, 
the least of my fantasies, but — but — only think of it 
— after all he is a Montgomery with but one m — 
Montgomery of Second avenue — canned goods and 
liquors. Believe me, my friend, all my aristocratic 
instincts are violated by such recollections. When I 
hear people talk about the only real Montgommerys, 


l’americaine. 


83 


the legendary Montgommerys, the Montgommerys 
of history, it seems to me as if some one were 
scratching my skin with a coarse brush, as if I were 
actually bleeding. To be called a Montgomery, 
and to be only a false Montgommery, an imported 
Montgomery, a Montgomery of the Almanach 
Bottin instead of the Almanach de Gotha! You must 
understand this, you who are an aristocrat like 
every good female republican of America.” 

“I understand,” and Sylvia’s voice had become 
soft, low and resigned, “that if you love Mr. Mont- 
gomery you ought to be happy.” 

“And I understand that perhaps you are not so 
very, very happy, though Richard Norton is — how 
did you put it a moment ago — the most loyal heart, 
the most devoted friend. Ah! we do not pay com- 
pliments when we really love. I will say more; it is 
nothing to say of the man you love: Ah! the scamp, 
ah! the rascal, but I adore him! On the contrary, 
this scamp immediately becomes an angel. That is 
the way I used to talk of Harrison.” 

“Harrison?” 

“Yes; Mr. Montgomery’s predecessor.” 

“But if you loved this Mr. Harrison, why were 
you divorced?” In the eyes of the handsome Lil- 


84 


l’americaine. 


iane there passed a flash of a half-forgotten anger. 
Then shrugging her shoulders, she said: 

“Why? For a very simple reason. He deceived 
me. He was a painter. Painters must have models. 
He pretended that it would not do to pose me eter- 
nally for his pictures. It would give to his work a 
tiresome uniformity. All his female figures would 
have a family resemblance. His patrons would 
complain. It was not propitious for his talent. 
There must be a change. The needs of art de- 
manded it. I did not understand. I became jealous. 
Then followed scenes. The matter was carried into 
the courts. There was a year of litigation — plead- 
ings and counter-pleadings. At last all was termi- 
nated and Mrs. Harrison passed off the stage, only 
to reappear as Mrs. Montgomery. Vive Mrs. Mont- 
gomery! Mrs. Montgomery with one mV added 
Liliane with a sigh, which caused Mrs. Norton to 
smile. 

“You complain!” said Sylvia, “and Mr. Mont- 
gomery is so good — ” 

“ The most devoted friend — the most loyal he art f re- 
peated Mrs. Montgomery, imitating Sylvia’s tone. 

And as a sudden, sad expression appeared upon 
Sylvia’s face, she added: “I beg your pardon. What 
I have just said is wicked, especially as my griefs are 


l’americaine. 


85 


of no consequence. I am a little wild, you know. 
But you are melancholy. Do you suffer? No? 
Don’t deceive me. Come,” she said, taking both her 
friend’s hands in her own, with a true tenderness, one 
of those movements characteristic of women, which 
denote absolute confidence, “you suffer a little; 
much, passionately?” 

“Not at all.” 

Mrs. Montgomery shook her head doubtfully. 

“You see, Sylvia, I am something of a physiogno- 
mist. You remember five years ago — at your 
father’s house in New York — I was then Mrs. Har- 
rison. Oh, that miserable Harrison! A young man 
used to come often. A Frenchman, whom we 
thought — how shall I say it — very agreeable.” 

“M. de Solis.” 

“Yes, the Marquis de Solis. You have not for- 
gotten the name — nor I either. Marchioness! It 
would make me smile to be a marchioness. Madame 
la Marchioness de Montgommery ! How well that 
would sound, announced by the master of cere- 
monies when you enter a parlor. Well, this Mar- 
quis de Solis — Georges de Solis, was it not? You 
see even his first name comes back to me. Well, I 
would have thought ” 

“You would have thought what?” 


86 


L AM ERI CAINE. 


“Nothing — one of my wild fancies. You know I 
have a good many of them.” / 

Mrs. Montgomery smiled while Sylvia tried to 
appear indifferent to this chatter whose light tinkle, 
however, sounded to her like the knell of a dear 
departed past. 

“He was actually smitten with you, that Monsieur 
de Solis.” 

“Smitten!” 

“Yes, a Parisienne would say that he was fairly 
cracked about you.” 

“Oh, Liliane!” Mrs. Norton’s voice, which before 
had sunk almost to a whisper, now became severe. 

“Does the word shock you? Cracked? You 
will hear worse on the boulevards. It is true though, 
I would be willing to bet that M, de Solis — ” 

“Would have asked my hand in marriage, is 
what you meant to say. Well, you would lose, my 
dear Liliane,” replied Sylvia, speaking in a sharp, 
almost impatient tone. “And besides, my father — ” 

“Your father would not have consented. But hap- 
pily, in America, we are free to marry as we like, of 
our own free will, and we may dispose of our own 
hand and live to repent it ever afterward. Yes, to 
repent it bitterly. I cannot understand why your 
father, who was not a parvenu, like so many others, 


l’americaine. 


87 


or a disdainful philosopher like mine, but a pure 
American — I cannot understand why he should not 
have been glad to see you a marchioness.” 

The conversation, in spite of its frivolous char- 
acter and of the cheerful manner of Mrs. Montgom- 
ery, seemed to affect Sylvia painfully; for after a few 
observations in which she essayed to show an entire 
indifference to what her friend was saying, she said 
firmly: 

“Say no more of all that, I pray you. The past is 
past. As a young girl I may have given you an idea 
of my dreams, but they have taken their flight long 
ago.” 

“Yes; but they have been tamed and the birds are 
returning. You have never heard M. de Solis men- 
tioned since?” 

“Never; I would be obliged to you not talk to me 
about him.” 

“Sylvia,” said Liliane, “do not say that. You 
almost make me think that the little wound has not 
healed over yet. Why one would think that you 
were afraid to meet this gentleman. If your husband 
were to hear of it, he might be jealous, and if M. de 
Solis were present it might make him vain. Happily, 
he is far away.” 

“Ah!” 


88 


l’americaine. 


Sylvia’s exclamation sounded very much like a 
sigh of regret. 

“Very far away.” And Liliane added, curious 
to note the effect of her words upon her friend: 

“You do not read the newspapers?” 

“Very little!” 

“Like every good Yankee I take bales of them 
and devour them all. In the first place because 
they mention me. Oh! it is amusing: 'The handsome 
Madame Montgommery ! Madame Montgommery s 
latest toilette! Madame Montgo?n?nery is spending the 
season in the comitry — at the seaside .’ Some of them 
put it de Montgommery. That makes me sigh and 
laugh, too. And then they keep me posted as to 
the doings and whereabouts of my friends in Amer- 
ica. There is not a supper given at Delmonico’s — 
our Cafi Anglais — with whose bill of fare I am not 
made familiar. It is very funny. Well, M. de Solis 
— I do not know where I read that — M. de Solis is 
traveling. He is risking his life, I have forgotten 
where, for something or somebody, I do not remem- 
ber what. He came very near being assassinated 
and even decapitated by the Black Flags, or the 
Yellow Flags, I am not quite sure of the color.” 

Ah!” said Sylvia again, in a voice which she 
tried to render indifferent. 


l’americaine. 


89 


“Why do people go among the Black Flags 
of Tonquin? People go to Paris, when they do not 
happen to have been born there, and if they are 
Parisians, they stay there. Is not that your opinion, 
Sylvia?” 

“Certainly, but ” 

“But what?” 

“M. de Solis?” 

“Ah! he still interests you. Well, he is safe and 
sound. He used his revolver it seems. The poor, 
dear American revolver, which has been so much 
abused. He used one of those pioneers of civiliza- 
tion with such telling effect that behold! the pirates, 
Chinese and others fled, pff! — like your dreams. Do 
not worry about the marquis! There is no dan- 
ger, not the slightest!” 

“I am glad to hear it; oh, so glad;” and she 
smiled now in response to Mrs. Montgomery’s 
searching look. 

“Why, my poor Sylvia, you are all in a flutter. 
It is not my poor little story I hope.” 

“No, this wretched nervousness, which the doc- 
tor will find some difficulty in curing, causes me 
pain at almost every movement. I am altogether 
too impressionable.” 

“Bah! I do not count on Dr. Fargeas to cure 
you; I put my faith in ‘Dr. Paris.’ Dear Paris, 


go 


l’americaine. 


what a doctor it is. It has saved many others than 
you.” 

Continuing in the same gay, happy, bantering 
air, she added: “But it is true also that it has lost 
many, oh, so many.” 

Two months had passed since the friends had 
exchanged the confidences related above, in the 
rue Rembrandt, Paris. Sylvia had brought away 
from this interview a memory which troubled her, a 
sort of anxiety. She could not help thinking about 
Georges de Solis, who had come into her life in her 
father’s home in New York, and whom she had at 
one time dared to dream of as fiance, husband, the 
chosen and loved one. He had been but a bird of 
passage. He had come and gone, not before divin- 
ing, however, that Sylvia was attracted to him. And 
had he not allowed the young girl to read what was 
in his heart? Had they not said to each other 
words which are never, never forgotten? 

Why had Georges de Solis departed so suddenly 
leaving Sylvia so saddened — Sylvia who had deter- 
mined to ask her father’s permission to marry this 
French nobleman. He had murmured his love 
to her; he had involuntarily allowed her to suspect 
the avowal of a love which suddenly, as it were, 
vanished, disappeared. Why? She had guessed it 


l’americaine. 


91 


since. But, at first, her chagrin was cruel. Yes, she 
had divined it. M. de Solis had gone away, because 
he believed she would be rich, and he did not wish 
to be accused, he, a foreigner, of scheming to marry 
the daughter of one of the richest bankers in New 
York. If he had only known that the banker’s ruin 
was so near at hand. 

In thinking of this past, in reviving these days, 
forever flown, which Liliane’s gossip had recalled, 
all instinct with life and sound, like a swarm of 
bees, attracted by the noise of a drum, Sylvia again 
saw herself in her chamber at her father’s, overcome 
with grief, thinking of M. de Solis who was no longer 
there. He had carried away with him one of her 
illusions, one of her beliefs. She had thought her- 
self loved. Then there came under the paternal 
roof Richard Norton, timid as a young girl, with 
the frankness of a child and the loyalty of a man. 
Encouraged by the father, he asked Sylvia if she 
would consent to unite her life with his, and yielding 
to the prayers of her father the young woman weak- 
ened, and then consented. It seemed to her since 
she no longer heard from M. de Solis, since he no 
longer seemed to love her to whom he had been so 
devoted— it seemed to her that it would be better to 
sacrifice herself without reflection, without hesita- 


92 


l’americaine. 


tion, since for her, this marriage which brought an 
unhoped-for*joy to Norton, and a consolation to Mr. 
Harley, was^a sacrifice, the immolation of a life. 
Besides, she respected Richard Norton. She had 
closed the unfinished romance and she said to her- 
self that with a man of his worth and his devotion 
she could, without doubt, begin a happy life. And 
besides, in all the honesty of her heart, she resolved 
strictly to respond to the injunction of the minister 
who read the marriage service, that she would follow 
her chosen husband everywhere, always, “in good as 
well as evil report.” She lived over again the day 
which had decided her life. Norton had sent and 
caused to be hung from the ceiling of her father’s 
parlor, an immense floral bell, made of roses of all 
colors, from the tea rose to a variety almost purple 
in color, and there under this marriage bell, the 
minister had united Richard and Sylvia before an 
open Bible, which was closed with their mutual oath 
of fidelity. 

The bell of red and white roses! How often 
since then Sylvia had heard it ring. Sometimes it 
rang joyously like the chimes of hope, more often 
it was like a knell, the knell of departed love; of a 
dead love and yet which seemed to be reviving in 
the depths of her heart. Yes, it seemed to revive 


l’americaine. 


93 


when her thoughts, stirred by the memories called 
up by Liliane, drifted back to him, as it were, with- 
out her volition. And Mrs. Montgomery had done 
this with her idle talk, the day she had recalled all 
this vanished past. 

This emotion experienced when the two friends 
had first met and talked, after their long separation, 
was more violently felt by Sylvia now; and as she sat 
thereby the side of Liliane, who was trying to charm 
away her melancholy, she thought of what Norton 
had just told her — that the marquis was in Trouville 
and that he had invited him to their house that very 
evening. Yes, this very evening, perhaps in this very 
parlor, she would see M. de Solis. In the hum of the 
conversations, in the chatter and laughter, with 
which Miss Arabella accompanied the refrain of 
some operetta by Sullivan, Sylvia watched the door, 
almost dreading the appearance of Georges de 
Solis. 

He would soon show himself, suddenly, before 
these people, most of whom were indifferent to her, 
and she would have to receive him coldly and form- 
ally, him whose life she had once dreamed of par- 
taking. She would force herself to appear calm, 
smiling even. She resolved that she would go 
straight to him, give him her hand, which might 


94 


l’americaine. 


tremble a little, but which would be the hand of a 
friend, and an honest woman. 

Sitting by the side of Liliane, listening to the 
heavy, distant, continuous murmur of the sea, which 
borne upon the incoming tide rolled its breakers 
upon the beach with a majestic rhythm, she heard in 
the soothing voice of the waves, far away, half 
drowned in their murmur the ringing of bells — 
betrothal bells, marriage bells, the sad sound of the 
bell of roses, of the poor faded roses. 

She looked at Norton. 

With his massive frame outlined against the clear 
horizon, by the side of the silhouette of Colonel 
Dickson, straight and tall as a hop pole, Richard 
stood smoking a cigar in the balcony where he had 
been joined by Montgomery. The cigar finished, 
Norton returned to his guests and took a glass of 
kummel from the hands of Miss Eva, while Dr. Far- 
geas, distinguished by his long, white locks, his 
cleanly shaven face, and his nose like an eagle’s 
beak, was sipping something out of a silver cup and 
was declaring to Norton that in spite of his horror of 
all alcoholic drinks, this brandy was really delicious. 

“It is celebrated at all events,” said Norton. 

“In the two America’s Mr. Norton’s brandy is 
justly famous,” added Montgomery. 


l’amf.ricaine. 


95 


“Moreover, it is French brandy, my dear doctor. 
Be assured, therefore, Cognac has never produced 
better. I bought this lot of a sea captain, who, out 
of a considerable fortune, saved only a cask of this 
brandy, which he did not want to part with. It may 
be that he intended to drown himself in it, as Clar- 
ence did in the famous butt of Malmsey. I paid its 
weight in gold for it. The captain afterward tried 
his luck at cards, and not being successful he, like a 
fool, blew his brains out, instead of beginning over 
again and wearing out his bad luck, a thing which is 
not always easy, but never impossible. I feel re- 
morseful sometimes for having bought his brandy. 
He would have made himself drunk on it, which 
might have consoled him and he might now be alive 
in consequence.” 

“That depends,” said Dr. Fargeas. “The mania for 
suicide is often independent of moral suffering. It 
is a matter of heredity. Atavism plays an important 
role in it.” 

Richard Norton, standing erect, his glass of 
cognac in his hand, tapped the doctor’s shoulder 
lightly and said: 

“Ah, these doctors, these terrible doctors! they 
put fatality into everything.” 


96 


l’americaine. 


“Necessarily. The theory of heredity replaced 
in the modern world the fatality of the ancients.” 

“Suicide, then, is it a matter of fatality?” 

“Yes, of a fatality of temperament very often.” 

“Then you do not believe in those insupportable 
ills which are sometimes thrown off with life, like a 
too heavy burden?” 

“My dear Mr. Norton,” answered the doctor, “I 
believe only in three things as insupportable — poverty, 
sickness and death. And yet humanity passes its 
time in bearing these things without suicide. Pshaw! 
If we killed ourselves for everything that irritates 
the nerves, the world would soon come to an 
end.” 

“Then you find life an excellent thing?” And 
Norton seemed anxious to push the doctor to the 
expression of some pessimistic theory. 

“ Ma foi! I do not find it perfect,” said the 
doctor. “But as death is eighty or a hundred times 
worse than the sufferings which make up life, I pre- 
fer, after having studied both, life, bad as it some- 
times is, to that famous release, which is, after all, a 
deliverance without appeal. And having said so 
much, I counsel you, my dear Norton, when you 
have any sorrow, do not meditate suicide; leave 
that to the imbeciles like your brandy merchant. 


l’americaine. 


97 


But you have nothing to fear on that score. You 
are a happy man.” 

“Oh!” said the American, “I am accustomed to 
trying conclusions with necessity.” 

As he spoke he looked with an expression of 
manly pride, of defiance, at the friends about him, 
who were tasting the captain’s cognac; then with 
the pride of one who has created his own fortune, 
but without the ostentation which bespeaks the 
parvenu, he said: 

“I could live just as easily with nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing, as with my present style of house- 
keeping, and I give you my word for it, I have no 
more need than others have for the millions which 
chance has given me.” 

The murmur of incredulity on the part of Mont- 
gomery, and of courtly protestation on the part of 
Dickson, were formulated by the doctor, who sud- 
denly interrupted with: 

“Chance, chance indeed! And how about your 
labor, my dear sir, and your skill, and your pa- 
tience?” 

“And chance,” added Norton. “Oh, yes! chance 
or luck must also have its share of the credit. We 
must not be too proud of our success in the world, 
and if we acknowledge, what is true, that luck is 

7 


9 8 


L AMERICAINE. 


often our co-laborer in every victory, it is not so 
bad. It makes us compassionate for the poor, and 
indulgent for the vanquished. I have known so 
many good fellows who have sweat water and blood 
all their lives and arrived at what? nothing? Or, 
without atavism, my dear doctor, without heredity, 
whatever you may say to the contrary, at suicide 
like my poor, unfortunate captain. Oh! I have 
toiled and moiled, yes, like a slave, and I can still 
show rough calloused places on my hands which 
date from those rude times. I am not ashamed 
to avow it, when I think, let me see;” and lean- 
ing upon the mantel, his eyes half shut, as if, 
lulled by some pleasant memory, he was living over 
again some portion of his past. “It is exactly thirty 
years day for day — the date came to me this morning 
while answering my mail — it is exactly thirty years 
to-day since I, Richard Norton, ran a boat on the 
Hudson, at the time when I was assisting my father, 
of blessed memory, to carry fire wood to the market. 
When I think of that, however courageously I may 
have worked since, you can not make me believe 
that luck has not favored me, for it has given me 
riches, and with riches, the dear wife, for whom I 
would give my entire fortune.” 

He spoke in a firm tone, standing there, his eyes 


l’americaine. 


99 


resting fondly on Sylvia, who silently listened with 
a smile of devoted gratitude on her lips. 

“Take care, Mr. Norton,” said Liliane laughing, 
“take care! You must not speak too loudly of your 
happiness.” . 

Norton looked at her a little uneasily. 

“I know,” he said, “it is tempting fate. But I 
will pay the ransom. Do you suppose if Mrs. Nor- 
ton’s health had not demanded it that I would 
ever have left New York for Paris? Yes,” said 
Richard smiling at Fargeas, “it is the fault of this 
dear and illustrious master that I am here.” 

“My fault?” said the learned doctor. 

“Yes, your fault. I proposed to you that you 
come to New York to treat Mrs. Norton specially, 
you, the great magician in nervous disorders.” 

“And I refused,” said Fargeas. 

“I offered ,you a fortune. Whatever you might 
have named. Yes, carte blanche .” 

“A cure by contract! But,” answered the doctor 
very simply, “I had at Paris all my hospital practice, 
poor devils who could not offer me anything. In 
such a case, you know, I could not hesitate.” 

“The doctor is not very American,” murmured 
M. de Berniere to Miss Eva, who was passing near 
him. 


100 


l’americaine. 


The pretty American girl made a courtesy. “But 
worthy to be, you are right!” she answered. 

Berniere bit his lips, while the handsome Ara- 
bella said with her engaging Yankee accent: 

“Listen to this piece, Monsieur le Vicomte. It is 
still better when I play the violoncello.” 

“And after all,” continued Dr. Fargeas, who had 
risen, “what will best suit your dear invalid — who is 
not so ill now — no, madame, you are no longer so 
interesting — is distraction, travel, change of air. 
The world is very large and the best prescription, 
nine times out of ten, is written on a railroad ticket. 
An excellent system besides; for if the sick get well 
at a distance the doctor has all the credit for it just 
the same. If they are not cured, he has no respon- 
sibility in the matter, he is so far away.” 

“Then,” said Norton, “I brought a part of my 
picture gallery to Paris. I furnished ,Mrs. Norton’s 
room, at my hotel, rue Rembrandt, in such a man- 
ner that she might imagine herself in New York, at 
home in our American house, and I hope, Paris 
assisting, andTrouville into the bargain, that I shall 
take my wife back, smiling, cured and happy for- 
ever. Ah! the dream — happy forever!” 

“I count on it also,” said Dr. Fargeas; “Mrs. Nor- 



THE PRETTY AMERICAN GIRL MADE A COURTESY 
























« 


I 





































\ 










































































































» 
















1 

1 















l’americaine. 


IOI 


ton has not done discredit to my prescriptions. You 
have no more nerves, now have you?” 

“None at all,” answered Sylvia, with a forced 
smile. 

“Oh, nerves, nerves!” added Mrs. Montgomery, 
laughing. “A woman uses her nerves as she does 
her fan, for the necessities of the case. Have we 
really nerves?” 

The big Offenburger had approached with kind- 
ling eyes when Norton had spoken of his pictures, 
as if he had heard some one tell out a sack of crown 
pieces. A collector of works of art, he knew the 
Norton gallery was famous. 

“Did you say, my dear Mr. Norton, that you had 
had your pictures brought to France?” 

“Those Mrs. Norton prefers; my Rousseaus and 
my Jules Dupres.” 

“Have you taken the precaution to have them 
insured?” continued the banker. 

“Oh! Insurance is the rule of every good Ameri- 
can. The Yankee is very adventurous, but very 
prudent. My pictures are worth a fortune. Yes, 
indeed, I am insured. If I lose them, they will pay 
me a fortune. What I would like to find, I repeat 
it without ceasing — like a refrain” — and he laughed 
— “is some company who would insure happiness.” 


102 


l’americaine. 


“If such a company shall be formed,” said Dr. 
Fargeas, “do not subscribe to any of its stock. It 
will do a losing business.” 


CHAPTER-IV. 


Mrs. Colonel Dickson continued to watch, out of 
the corners of her big blue eyes, what was going on 
in the parlor. She was seated in the same place 
and still held in her hand her empty tea cup, to 
keep her in countenance, as it were. It seemed to 
her that the Viscount de Berniere,who was leaning 
over the piano, upon whose keys Arabella’s taper 
fingers were idly wandering, was in . a fair way to 
begin a flirtation. Miss Eva, whom the colonel’s 
wife had at first judged to be insignificant, was 
moving here and there, discreet and smiling, ac- 
companied by Mademoiselle Offenburger, with her 
handsome Israelitish profile, her plump shoulders, 
her small, finely proportioned hands and her eyes 
like those of a dying gazelle; and the presence of 
these two began to trouble the scheming Mrs. 
Dickson. She seemed, indeed, to have laid a 
decided claim upon Berniere, who was so amusing 
in his decadent dandyism, so attractive in his wit, 
his fortune and his title. Arabella might be a vis- 
countess. The perspective was far from displeasing 
to the worldly minded mother. She had dreamed 

103 


104 


l’americaine. 


of dukes, princes and highnesses. At Nice she had 
all but been taken in by a prince of the table d hote , 
and after this adventure she was a little distrustful. 
Moreover, the colonel had inquired about Berniere. 
He was of a good family, an orphan and had a bona 
fide title. Arabella might, therefore, flirt with 
propriety. 

It was the little German girl who most worried 
Mrs. Colonel Dickson. 

Mademoiselle Offenburger was, evidently, very 
adroitly directing some tender glances in M. Ber- 
niere’s direction. Perhaps she, too, had some views 
in regard to- the viscount. Berniere felt himself, in 
consequence, softly enveloped with these pretty 
attentions and advances, which tickled his pessimis- 
tic vanity. He found the handsome Arabella deli- 
cious, and the little Jewess attractive and appetizing. 
And Miss Eva, who rallied him at will, seemed dev- 
ilishly piquant, very piquant indeed. But Berniere 
was not thinking seriously about either of them. 
For the moment, like a practical philosopher, he was 
watching the far-away lights of Havre, and was say- 
ing to himself that it was pleasant, after an exquisite 
dinner, to hear agreeable music played by a pretty 
woman. 

Paul de Berniere had made up his mind to play 


l’americaine. 


105 


this role of auditor, spectator and connoisseur of 
life, everywhere and always. He had soon recog- 
nized that there is nothing of consequence in exist- 
ence outside of the sensations of art, the influence 
of good music, or of choice poetry. He piqued 
himself upon passing for a decadent, a being who 
has been deceived in life, and was mildly ironical, 
without the grand bursts of anger, which character- 
ized the romantic recalcitrants of an earlier epoch, 
and without the disdainful bearing of the blaze 
youth of his acquaintance. 

During the entire dinner the young man had ob- 
served and studied the company present. Taking life 
ordinarily for a spectacle to which he brought no 
great passion, hardly a grain of curiosity, he found 
in the actual situation something original and unex- 
pected — for he felt himself watched at the same 
time by the Offenburgers and the Dicksons — by 
Germany and America as it were. Parisian to his 
finger tips, a little tired of everything, having never 
had, even at twenty years, those mad follies common 
to youth, Berniere had taken, as he termed it, a 
stall in the spectacle of life and cared little to take 
part in the play. What was the good in playing a 
role? As an actor, one would have neither the right 
nor the time to hoot at and hiss down the others. 


io6 


l’americaine. 


Rich enough to gratify his fancies, the viscount had 
no caprices, simply because he could satisfy them. 
Had he been loved he would not have allowed him- 
self to be compromised in any way — women are so 
queer — but certainly, he said, he had never really 
loved with a true, a serious love. His heart had been 
torn in tatters in amourettes, in petty love passages. 
At least so he said, a little vauntingly at times. But 
really he had a horror of sentiment. The ideal was 
to him a trifle ridiculous. He believed only in 
science, and even that was wearisome. At eighteen 
years of age he had fought bravely in a battalion of 
Mobiles, and for two long months in one of the 
forts of Paris he lived under the constant fire of 
shells from the German batteries. It was rare that 
he talked of these things afterward. The war 
seemed to him to be a disagreeable memory to be 
banished. He had burned, thinking them ridiculous, 
the old photographs of 1871, which represented him 
as a beardless boy in his uniform of French soldier. 
He was never heard to talk of battles, though he had 
the medal of a military brevet hid away in a corner, 
nor of his country, though he had exchanged a shot 
with an Italian officer at the Rhigi in Switzerland, 
who had spoken slightingly at the table d hote of 
our Zouaves. 


l’americaine. 


107 


Paul de Berniere was an amiable skeptic, a boast- 
ful doubter, pretending that all the young men of to- 
day resembled him. Havingbeen presented to Norton 
in Paris, he had become intimately acquainted with 
him at Trouville — thanks to Dr. Fargeas, his friend 
— and he listened willingly to the admonitions of the 
American, whom he envied as a practical man, and 
to the counsels of Sylvia, whose voice produced the 
same effect upon him as music; but he had nothing 
more pressing to do than to forget both. 

The viscount affected to make a show of the pes- 
simism which was invading the brains of the young 
men of his time like a slow poison. Disgusted with 
the hollowness of the daily discussions he heard 
around him, he felt a sensation of intellectual 
aenemia, not indeed without its charm, like those 
delicious torpors which precede sleep. Thinking it 
would be almost ridiculous to protest against cur- 
rent follies or to become indignant over the infa- 
mies of society, whose numbers had grown so great 
that they seemed to invade his world like a rising 
tide, he allowed himself to glide along with the cur- 
rent of the day, living the life of a curious on-looker, 
since he would have been out of place in the char- 
acter of a hero, and wearing, like a flower in his but- 
ton-hole this name of decadent which admirably 


io8 


l’ameri caine 


sums up the weariness and abdication of those of 
his age. To be disillusioned, a partisan of abdica- 
tion in all things, did not, besides, seem to him to 
be either a misfortune or a vice. There were for 
this refined intellect, in the periods of decadence, 
spectacles of social decomposition much more inter- 
esting than the dramatic scenes of the grand epochs 
of faith. And, like one leaning with his elbows on 
the parapet of his box at the theater, he gazed upon 
the comedy of life which was being played before 
him; and so attractive were its effervescing peculiari- 
ties, that he did not even feel tempted to express 
his disapproval of its laxity and immorality. 

This Parisian, firm in his intention not to be the 
dupe of a time politely egotistic and elegantly cor- 
rupt, feared two things above all others — to be the 
object of ridicule and the victim of a passion. 

Berniere had no reason to dread the former. He 
was what might be called a charming man. His 
form had all the slenderness of youth, his mustache 
was blond and curled lightly over finely cut lips. 
His hair waved naturally, and, with a monocle in his 
right eye, he bore some resemblance to a handsome 
cavalier in citizen’s dress, and on seeing him one 
looked instinctively for a spur on his heel and a bit 
of ribbon in his button hole. Tall, nervous, with 


l’americaine. 109 

small hands and feet, there was a special elegance 
in his whole form. It was a grace without haughti- 
ness, with a certain seductive laisser-aller which dif- 
fered from the English rigidity, a special attractive 
informal elegance which is so characteristic of the 
French'. 

As for passion Berniere might not have escaped 
that so easily. In this respect, his disdain might 
have resulted from some early misplaced confidence. 
Paul d^ Berniere might have loved with too much 
confidence and with a faith too vivid. He had dis- 
covered that he was a fool, and had suddenly recov- 
ered entire possession of himself. Plereafter no one 
should surprise his confidence. He was like those 
art amateurs who love to exhibit their treasures to 
their friends, but who at the first absurd utterance 
of an ignorant admirer, at the first touch of a rude 
hand, put them under lock and key, like misers, and 
never show them again. So Arabella, Helene Offen- 
burger and Eva Meredith might be as exquisite, 
seductive and distracting as they liked, the heart of 
Berniere was closed. 

Yes, hereafter he would hold his heart in his own 
keeping, that treasure, already a little worn and 
damaged. He did not fancy playing the role of 
dupe any longer. In the domain of sentiment he 


IIO 


l’americaine. 


would be an amateur, a scoffer, and would make no 
sacrifice of himself. Resolved not to marry, for, of 
all deceptions to be dreaded, the most terrible for 
him was the morrow after the marriage, he would 
calmly live his life of bachelor to the end, compli- 
cating his existence neither by wife nor children. 
What folly when one is free to alienate one’s liberty. 

But in spite of the mocking smile which curled 
his lip, Berniere had been for some time more 
troubled and irritated than he would be willing to 
have known. For example, he thought at times that 
he would never again set foot within the walls of 
the Norton mansion, though he had always been 
received there with a touching cordiality. Miss 
Meredith’s curling black hair, with its tempting 
frizzes over the forehead, haunted him too persist- 
ently; and since he had been at Trouville he thought 
too often of that clear voice, that open, friendly 
look, of the hand frankly extended to him, of that 
charm which seemed to envelop the young girl. He 
felt too keen a pleasure in going to visit these 
Americans whom he called friends. 

The latter part of the winter’s social season 
seemed insipid to him because the five o'clock's did 
not come twice a day. 

It was time to go to tho watering places. In 


l’americaine. 


1 1 


Paris, life was dreary and uninteresting. The Paris- 
ian life, the life of a young man who is rich and cur- 
ious to know everything, is, however, very much 
occupied. The invitations, visits, first representa- 
tions at the theatre, exhibitions of fencing, all the 
daily distractions, fatiguing as labor itself, of the 
Parisian who wants to know everything simply be- 
cause some time he may feel tempted to sneer at 
it all; this perpetual movement in a void; this eter- 
nal repetition of things already seen, bored Ber- 
niere. An evening passed at Norton’s as nt Trou- 
ville, on this day, caused him on the contrary to 
again find a relish in existence. 

Only, in his opinion, the image of Miss Mere- 
dith was too much in his thoughts. He had not 
sworn never to love, only to fall into the toils of 
this little Yankee, this bird of passage, destined to 
again traverse the ocean. 

As this sentiment from day to day entered into 
and took possession of him, at first with a sort of 
latent and then with a fascinating power, Paul re- 
sisted it, thinking it absurd that he should be thus 
caught. The thought irritated him, as well as the 
grace of Eva, who treated him with that frank 
intimacy which distinguishes young girls of her 
country. Then he had a violent desire to pack his 


1 12 


l’americaine. 


trunks and leave Trouville for Dinard where he 
might finish the summer season, or for some corner 
of Brittany, or for Douarnenez or devil knows where. 
But after all, he said to himself, it would be giving 
too much importance to a state of mind which at 
most was very vague, to endeavor to escape from it 
by flight. What did he care for Miss Meredith and 
what was this feeling he had for her? Supposing 
even — which he denied — that there was a semblance, 
a phantom, an atom of love in it — well he would 
amuse himself with it. Flirting is an occupation 
like any other. It bears the same relation to love 
that idle gabble does to eloquence. A diversion at 
least. 

“As to love — bah — love ! We must learn to root 
it from the heart as one cuts a corn from his foot,” 
said the viscount. “ It belongs no more immediately 
to our individuality than a callous does.” 

During the dinner he had studiously avoided 
looking at Miss Meredith, but divided his glances of 
admiration between the blue eyes of Miss Arabella 
Dickson and the dark tender orbs of Mademoiselle 
Offenburger. The colonel’s wife had been delighted 
to hear, amid the clatter of the knives and forks, this 
appreciative remark of the viscount upon the beauty 
of her daughter: 


l’americaine. 


n 3 

“Blue eyes and a white skin — they are like a 
couple of violets fallen in the snow.” 

But, on the contrary, Mrs. Dickson was not so 
well pleased when Berniere, after the dessert, had 
strongly insisted upon Dr. Fargeas telling him where 
the Offenburgers came from. 

“Mademoiselle Offenburger is charming, doctor, 
but there is about her something exotic, something 
of the Arab, of the oriental — ” 

“Mademoiselle Helene seems to pre-occupy you 
a good deal, dear viscount,” interrupted the colonel’s 
wife, with the least perceptible shade of irritation in 
her tone. 

“Pure curiosity, madam. If there is a woman 
here who pre-occupies me, it certainly is not Mad- 
emoiselle Offenburger.” 

Mrs. Dickson was silent a moment, beaming 
upon the young man with an engaging air, while the 
two loto balls which did duty for eyes were moist- 
ened with sweet maternal tears. In the meantime, 
Dr. Fargeas answered Berniere. 

“ Mademoiselle Offenburger is indeed an exotic, 
my dear, raised in France. Her father is a Ham- 
burger and her mother was an Englishwoman.” 

“Madame Offenburger is dead, then?” 

“ Years ago. Mademoiselle Offenburger is very 

8 


l’americaine. 


1 14 

nice. You are right when you say she is charming, 
my dear Paul. She is an adorable creature — a little 
composite — very well educated. I should say a lit- 
tle too learned for my taste, but exquisite. And 
practical! She is a type of the true modern young 
woman, my friend. She is as modern in knowing all 
things as you are in believing nothing!” 

“ And who has told you that I believe in noth- 
ing?” replied Berniere, who, to amuse his caprice, 
was examining Miss Meredith and comparing her to 
the tall statuesque Arabella and to this dimpled 
Helene Offenburger. 

He was, first of all, a too thorough Parisian, a 
Parisian of the upper and lower strata of society, 
not to know Offenburger, whose pretty daughter was 
as delicate and refined in limb and feature, as he 
was coarse and stout. 

The Hamburger was a tall, fine-looking man, fat 
and protuberant of stomach, all chin and cheeks, 
the nose large and blunt, pendent over enormous 
red lips, black whiskers resembling curled horse- 
hair, so very black that at a distance one had in. 
looking at him the impression of two plaques of 
India ink on a pink skin. The great black oriental 
eyes rested upon men and things with an affectation 
of placid good will, but which was in reality a sort of 


l’americaine. 


115 

good-humored disdain, the personal assertion of his 
own superiority. 

Such was the father of the bewitching Helene. 
When he wore his hat, which he kept always, if not 
on his head, at least in his hand, he appeared young 
still with the frame of a handsome Turk, and a com- 
plexion whose tints were warm and clear. He only 
showed his age when he uncovered, allowing to be 
seen, as at present, a bald crown, knobby with pro- 
tuberances, and of a decidedly more yellow hue than 
his face, contrasting so strongly with the red hue 
vthat Paul de Berniere mentally compared the banker 
to a sherbet of vanilla and gooseberry, the vanilla 
on top. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why 
M. Offenburger so generally kept his hat pulled over 
his brows. 

On the surface he was a very good man — iced 
and sugared. The viscount might have gone even 
further in his comparison of him with the sherbet. 
He was a man of excellent taste; an inveterate col- 
lector of works of art and curios, paying dearly the 
agents who in his behalf took by assault the bibelots 
under the fire of bids in the auction rooms, at the 
Hotel des Ventes, lending his tapestries and ivories 
to the public expositions, if only to have the joy of 
reading in the catalogues and labels: 


ii6 


l’americaine. 


“ Collection of M. Moses Ojfenburger having in his 
stables blooded horses which had won medals at the 
race courses, and in his kennels a pack of hounds 
which had gained the first prize awarded by the 
committee, at the exhibition at the Tuilleries. 
Luxurious in his style of living, he was yet a demo- 
crat. He was appealed to whenever a struggling 
journal was to be founded. He insisted that he 
loved France, that there was no country but France 
in the world; and Berniere had even experienced, at 
dinner, a peculiar annoyance, in spite of his deca- 
dentism in hearing the Hamburger deplore with his 
over-the-Rhine accent, the plu?iders they were mak- 
ing in France and the degadence of this creat, fery 
ere at country. 

The origin of Offenburger’s fortune was not 
exactly known. He had fallen upon Paris, fifteen 
years before, like an aerolite, but an aerolite of gold. 
He had attracted notice around the Lac by his 
equipages; the lorgnettes at the opera by the 
diamonds of his wife, since dead, and afterward by 
the beauty of his daughter. He had attracted the 
reporters to his hotel by his receptions and his 
Tokay; the painters by his purchases of pictures; 
the brokers by his operations at the Bourse, and, 
little by little, this mixture of heterogeneous author- 


l’americaine. 


II 7 

ities and interests massed about him and formed 
an enormous ball which rolled across Paris, one 
would say a ball of snow, if Offenburger’s renown 
had been perfectly immaculate. 

King of a republic of stock-jobbers and specula- 
tors, this Hamburger, perhaps a naturalized French- 
man, had become, by the complicity of the good 
journalists, and the small fry of finance, a sort of 
bizarre power who held the mean between the dip- 
lomatic agent and the money lender. Ministers con- 
sulted him to know what the ambassador of his 
country thought of their declarations. He gave to 
the governments of Europe his opinions on the 
affairs of France; honored in wearing on fete days 
the decoration of his sovereign, he pretended that 
the statesmen on the banks of the Seine were too 
much frightened by radicalism, and did not take a 
sufficiently advanced position on the questions of 
the day. 

Offenburger not only associated with the poli- 
ticians who negotiate loans, and the gazetteers who 
unmake the politicians, but he made the most also 
of his democratic acquaintances, as the cream of 
high life. 

He invited to his paper hunts clubmen of re- 
nown, noblemen to whom the columns of the Vie 


1 1 8 


l’americaine. 


Parisienne are like the Almanach de Gotha. The Mar- 
quis d’Ayglars, who was still frisky in spite of his 
fifty years, was the beater-up of game for this chase 
of decayed nobility. This man, it was said by some, 
served Offenburger out of friendship, while others 
affirmed that he acted as a paid counsellor in per- 
forming the functions of major-domo at the chateau 
of Luzancy, as he might have performed those of 
his own castle, if Ayglars had not been razed by the 
land speculators — the bande noire. 

Offenburger did not buy a horse or give an order 
to his saddler without the consent of the marquis. 
It was for Offenburger that Ayglars went to Tatter- 
sail’s, it was for Offenburger that he drew up a sort 
of code of ceremonial which the banker studied and 
conned like a scholar who is anxious to pass an 
examination for his degree. The marquis was to 
Offenburger, in all questions relating to horses, what 
Saki-Mayer was in questions relating to art curios. 
He busied himself about blooded animals as the 
Jew dealer did about antiques. This is why the 
Archduke Heinrich, when that prince came to 
France, §aid that Moses Offenburger had enter- 
tained him at Luzancy as the surintendents used to 
entertain the Sun-king, in the time before the Bas- 
tille; that Mazas of the olden time. 


l’americaine. 


1 19 

“That Offenburger,” he said, “has the best 
Johannisberg I ever drank. His horses are better 
groomed than those of the Emperor, my brother. A 
ball might be given in the stables, they are so clean. 
He has most admirable pictures, the most extraord- 
inary curiosities; his table is the best appointed I 
know, and his kennels are astonishing. That Offen- 
burger actually disgusts me!” 

Paul de Berniere recalled one by one all these 
stories of Parisian gossip, while examining the big 
man without a country, who had chosen Paris for a 
residence simply because he could find more pleas- 
ure there than in Hamburg; but in noting the soft, 
voluptuous outlines of the charming Helene he for- 
got all the ridiculous characteristics of the father 
and amused himself, as an amateur only, in compar- 
ing the three young ladies, Mademoiselle Offenbur- 
ger, pretty as a Turkish odalisque, Arabella, majes- 
tic as Houdon’s Diana, and Eva, truly exquisite 
with her innocent look, the look of a pure girl. 
There was also the handsome Mrs. Montgomery and 
Sylvia Norton, seated in the half shadow; and Ber- 
niere enjoyed an artistic pleasure in seeing these 
adorable creatures, assembled like so many works of 
art in a museum, and analyzed them with the eye 
of a connoisseur, of a refined critic without the least 


120 


L AMERICAINE. 


thought of falling in love, for had he not decided 
that he would never love any one? 

And while Miss Dickson sang to her own accom- 
paniment an American song, a sort of quavering 
negro melody, through which there ran an under- 
current of melancholy, like the wail of slaves, Paul, 
with his epicurean dilettantism, with a feeling of 
voluptuous content, was comparing his position of 
a skeptic in repose to the feverishly, laborious life 
of his host, Norton, or to that of Montgomery, or of 
Offenburger, burdened with the cares of business, or 
of the colonel exhibiting his daughter throughout 
the world, or even of Fargeas, living in the midst of 
human suffering, while he, Berniere, was enjoying 
the delicious far niente of an existence devoted to 
pleasure. Free, pampered, a favorite among women, 
he felt like saying: 

“I want no preoccupations. I prefer smiles rather 
and the liberty to judge for myself.” 

During the dinner he noticed a strange expres- 
sion in Sylvia’s look, which set him to thinking, and 
he said to himself: 

“Who will pretend that a young girl is an un- 
decipherable enigma. The most difficult being to 
decipher is not the young girl but the woman. 
What is Mrs. Norton thinking about and what is the 


l’americaine. 


121 


malady from which she suffers? For she is suffering! 
She is suffering, and I defy the skill of the great 
neurologist, Dr. Fargeas, to explain to me what 
it is.” 

And now, to satisfy his curiosity — for Mademoi- 
selle Offenburger had succeeded Arabella at the 
piano, and was playing a selection from Beethoven 
— Berniere seated himself opposite Mrs. Norton, 
who was half reclining upon a lounge, and began to 
study her. She was no longer talking with Mrs. 
Montgomery, but was listening, as if charmed, to 
the exquisite music. 

He could see only her profile. There was a sort 
of sadness in the attention which she paid to the 
symphony. Her brows were knitted over her blue 
eyes, and in the palpitation of her fine nostrils, there 
was evinced a feverish emotion. All that may have 
proven simply that Sylvia was an artist and that all 
her being was vibrating to that voice of the beyond. 

Miss Eva, standing near the piano, was as much 
moved as Mrs. Norton. The little American, w r ith 
her hands crossed, listened in ecstasy. The impassi- 
ble Arabella was seated by the side of her mother, 
who condescended to compliment Mademoiselle 
Offenburger with a smile in which disdain and envy 
were mingled. 


122 


l’americaine. 


Helene Offenburger was a consummate musician, 
a little dry and methodic, perhaps, but sure. When 
she had finished, Berniere could not help applaud- 
ing. Offenburger beamed, and the Dicksons paid 
her the tribute of a perfunctory smile. Sylvia, in 
her delight, held out her hands to Helene, who, 
after having clasped them warmly, threw back with 
a pretty, quick gesture, the meshes of her black 
hair, which had fallen over her forehead. 

“How happy you must be, mademoiselle, to be 
so good a musician,” said Eva. 

Helene showed no astonishment nor anxiety. She 
knew she was an excellent musician and did not 
give herself any coquettish airs in consequence. It 
was simply a fact. She would tell with utter sim- 
plicity how her professor had been pleased with her 
saying that if she cared to give concerts she would 
certainly make a name, a great name in music. 

“But I like the bank better,” she added smil- 
ing. 

Then they talked about Beethoven. Eva told, 
in a few soft words, what delicious tremors she ex- 
perienced in hearing the master’s music, and then ' 
they discussed the respective merits of Beethoven 
and Mozart. 

“I was expecting Mozart,” said Berniere. 


l’americaine. 


123 


But what he did not expect was the manner in 
which Mademoiselle Offenburger demonstrated the 
superiority of Beethoven by the volume of the lat- 
ter’s brain, for this young girl, who but a moment 
before had evoked from the piano, music which 
seemed the soul of poetry and the material of 
dreams, now easily drifted, to the astonishment of 
Sylvia, the amusement of Berniere, and the terror of 
Liliane Montgomery, into a discussion of the rela- 
tion between encephalic volume and intellectual 
development. And she said encephalic. She did 
not frown, she did not smile, and her little mouth, 
with its ripe red lips, was provokingly charming 
while she uttered these bits of statistical wisdom. 
Then she passed from Beethoven’s cranium to that 
of another, not a musician but a thinker. 

“Do you know,” she said, “that Descartes’ cran- 
ium had a capacity of 1,700 centimetres more than 
that of the mean of Parisian craniums of to-day?” 

And that was not all. The skull of La Fontaine 
measured 1,950 centimetres, exactly the same as that 
of Spurzheim. The brain of another contemporan- 
eous writer, who had just been interred, weighed 
2,012 grammes, a little less than Cromwell’s. 

“And Cromwell’s?” asked Liliane Montgomery, 
mockingly, thinking to embarrass the young woman. 


124 


l’americaine. 


“2,230 grammes,” came promptly from the rosy 
lips of the pretty Jewess. 

The big banker puffed out his chest with pride 
and Mrs. Dickson looked at the colonel as if to say: 

“Well, what can Arabella do to match that?” 

But Arabella sat motionless as a. statue, looking 
at the sea with an impassive stare. 

In thus showing off her varied learning there was 
no affectation in Mademoiselle Offenburger’s man- 
ner. She told what she knew. It was all very 
simple. 

Mrs. Montgomery seemed dazed, as if she had 
heard something hitherto unknown, a language she 
did not understand. 

“I’ll wager you, my dear Eva,” she said laugh- 
ing, “that you were ignorant of all that.” 

“I? Madam, oh! I am not learned,” answered 
Miss Meredith. And she, too, put nothing of pique, 
or false modesty in her answer. She was ignorant 
of these things, she frankly avowed it, which was 
very natural to a creature who was naturalness itself. 

But strange to say, all this scientific erudition of 
Mademoiselle Offenburger did not displease Paul 
de Berniere. To him she was curious, this young 
girl with the oriental profile — very curious. A cyclo- 
paedia with velvety eyes was piquant. He would not 


l’americaine. 


125 


have dared to talk anthropology with her, but it was 
diverting to hear her speak so prettily, in her soft, 
sweet voice, about cranial capacities, and to see 
her, as it were, almost weigh the brains of the illus- 
trious dead in her little dimpled hand. What a 
delightful little lecturer. She may have been a pro- 
fessor. Paul was strongly tempted to ask her. 

“What do you think of Mademoiselle Offenbur- 
ger?” asked Mrs. Montgomery. 

“Very pretty, very pretty! But I shouldn’t like 
to be obliged to pass my baccalaureate before her. 

I would not succeed!” 

“As a bachelor, perhaps, but as a husband, I think 
not.” 

“As a husband,” said Berniere, “I shall never 
have my diploma.” 

“You were, however, cut out for a married man,” • 
said Dr. Fargeas, who had joined the group. 

“I?” And Berniere smiled. “Oh, doctor, what 
have I done to merit this opinion?” 

“You? Your pessimism is false, your skepticism 
is imaginary, your irony is disingenuous and I pre- 
scribe as a remedy the chimney corner — ” 

“Along with the pots and stewpans! Thanks, 
no, doctor.” 

Mrs. Dickson had overheard, and this anti-matri- 


126 


L AMERICAINE. 


monial declaration on the part of the young man 
brought a contemptuous smile to her lips. She was 
about to protest against the viscount’s impertinent 
comparison when the door opened and a valet an- 
nounced Marquis de Solis. 

The entrance of Georges was greeted by a uni- 
versal cry of salutation, and Norton, leaving the 
colonel’s side, crossed the room in two or three 
strides, and going straight to the marquis, held out 
both hands in a warm welcome. 

“How do you do? Well, this is so good of you!” 

The American looked anxiously toward his wife, 
who had risen looking very pale, while Mrs. Mont- 
gomery watched her covertly, with a crafty smile 
upon her lips. 

Mrs. Norton remained standing before the lounge, 
upon which she had just been seated by the side of 
Liliane, and Norton came toward her to present M. 
de Solis. The latter bowed and murmured the usual 
commonplaces, and in the momentary pause which 
ensued he looked into Sylvia’s eyes with an inquir- 
ing look. 

He had come suddenly, with a sort of precipita- 
tion, after having debated with himself for a part of 
the evening the question whether he should come or 
not. He felt by instinct that it was a grave moment 


l’americaine. 


127 


in his life, and might be painful. At one time 
he decided that he would not come, but would leave 
Trouville without seeing Sylvia. 

He had, since the evening before, quitted the 
Roches Noires and had rented in a private house 
a chamber whose windows looked out upon the sea. 
Leaning from the balcony he saw to his left the 
jetty, the line of the beach, the houses of Deauville; 
yonder, before him, the bathing beach with its hum, 
its swarming life, the chatter of the promenaders — 
all dominated and dwarfed by the grand voice of 
the ocean. He lived there — his expression to Nor- 
ton was exact — tete-a-tete with his mother. This 
household, consisting of an old woman and her son, 
was charming, idyllic. The marquis had on the 
evening before considered that it would be wrong to 
his dear mother to pass an evening away from her, 
after so many long months of separation. He had 
found her, with what joy, on his return as handsome 
as ever, her black eyes beaming beneath her gray 
hair. Near her Solis felt like a whipped child who 
comes to his mother’s side for comfort and receives 
her too indulgent caresses. His life, tormented 
with unrealized dreams, torn, bitter, but without 
pessimism and without despair, was to find an end 
in this sweet calm; and the man who had traversed 


128 


L AM ERI CAINE. 


the universe in search of distractions was to find at 
last that nothing is equal to his mother’s love, nar- 
row and warm as a cradle. 

A single evening taken from this intimacy was 
much. It was too much. The marquis had decided 
to live like a savage. He concealed himself in his 
apartments, and it seemed to him that he should 
never have enough time to tell to the marchioness 
all that he had seen in his travels. She listened to 
him with delight and devoured him with her eyes 
with the selfish joy of those who adore. They lived 
in a sort of honeymoon of filial and maternal ten- 
derness. The mother felt that at last she saw him 
again, had him with her, this son who had been to 
the ends of the earth. She devoured him with looks 
which at times became anxious, for instinctively the 
mother divined the presence of some melancholy, 
the memory, perhaps, of a disappointed love. 

Yes, at first the Marquis de Solis felt a sorrow in 
leaving the marchioness, in taking away from her a 
minute of that joy which was hers by right, and then 
suddenly he had experienced a fierce desire to see 
Sylvia again. He felt a sensation of curiosity, as of 
one who desires to look again upon a pool of dor- 
mant water which had once reflected his image, to 


L AMERICAINE. 


129 


see if the phantom, the shadow of his former self 
were still there. 

And now Sylvia was there before him, in appear- 
ance cold, and stiffly formal, but upon her lips, 
which trembled a little, there was a sweet, sad, con- 
fiding smile. 

“ My dear Sylvia,” said Norton, in his frank, 
manly voice, “ I need not present to you my friend, 
M. de Solis. He is indeed a friend, in every sense 
of that word, unhappily much abused. Almost a 
brother, aren’t you, Solis?” 

“Almost a brother, yes,” answered the marquis, 
with a huskiness in his voice. 

Everybody in the parlor was looking on. Miss 
Arabella even placed a lorgnon to her pretty eyes to 
examine the newcomer whose title pleased her — 
marquis! 

Sylvia, by a supreme effort, held out her hand to 
Georges de Solis, who scarcely touched it as if he 
were afraid to take it in his own. 

“Well, well,” said Norton, joyously, “it is an old 
friendship, a double friendship, you know,” while 
Liliane whispered to her husband: 

“You’ll see, he is going to ask Sylvia to put the 
marquis on her list of intimate friends.” 

“What do you say, my dear?” asked Montgomery. 

9 


130 


l’americaine. 


“Nothing! Nothing that concerns you, or rather 
yes. But no matter,” and turned her head away. 

“Now, my dear Georges,” continued Norton, “in 
the place of one friend here you have two, for Mrs. 
Norton will prove to you that there are American 
ladies who love their firesides and also the guests 
of the family fireside.” 

“There! What did I tell you?” said Mrs. Mont- 
gomery. “Oh! these husbands!” 

“Well!” ejaculated Montgomery, who still did 
not understand the meaning of his wife’s words. 

“Well, you cannot understand, you are one of 
them.” 

Mademoiselle Offenburger, who was studying the 
Marquis de Solis with her gazelle-like eyes, asked 
laughing: 

“Does monsieur imagine that all American 
women are as extravagant as those we so often see 
in Paris?” 

“Yes,” said Sylvia. 

The marquis bowed: 

“I beg pardon, madam,” he said. “It is in your 
country, especially, where a young woman may 
travel alone from one end of the Union to the other 
without being insulted, that I have learned to re- 
spect that which is the most worthy to be re- 


l’americaine. 


131 

spected in the world, the graciousness of a modest 
woman.” 

“Very good!” said Miss Eva laughing; “for a 
Frenchman, that is very good.” 

“How? For a Frenchman? Why, for whom 
does this granddaughter of the Mohicans take us?” 
said Dr. Fargeas to Berniere. 

Berniere smiled. 

“Oh, it is easily understood,” said he; “she 
doesn’t take us at all — s , ee?” 

Sylvia had remained mute before Solis. She 
wished, however, to find something to say, some- 
thing in which the present, with all its rights, its 
reality, its duty, should be affirmed without effacing 
from her memory the sacred, venerated past, which 
was so dear to her. 

“My husband,” she began, determined that these 
revered words should be the first her lips should 
utter, “my husband was right in saying that you 
would be twice welcome with us, M. de Solis. After 
receiving you at my father’s house, I shall be happy 
— to receive you at my own, as ” 

“As formerly,” said Georges with a choking in 
his throat. 

Mrs. Montgomery could not help letting slip a 


132 


l’americaine. 


little hum , which she immediately tried to pass off 
for a slight cough. 

Sylvia sat down quickly, as if she felt her strength 
failing her, and Norton, who had noticed the' 
action, came softly toward her and asked if she were 
ill. 

“It is nothing, I assure you. A little giddiness; 
the sun was so hot this afternoon!” 

“Let me take you into the air on the balcony. I 
assure you that you are ill. You are feverish.” He 
touched her hand as he spoke. 

Sylvia began to laugh. 

“I? A fever? Is it so, doctor?” And she held 
out her hand to Dr. Fargeas. 

“Mr. Norton is right, madame,” said the doctor. 

“You have a slight acceleration of the pulse; but 
a little rest ” 

“I never felt better. The fever? Well, it is 
Trouville that has given it to me; that is all. I 
would like to go back again.” 

“Go back again?” said Liliane. 

Norton nodded, “We will go back, my dear 
Sylvia, when the doctor permits it — when you are 
cured. But you remember the voyage and the 
dangers incurred. The doctor will not suffer you to 
have any illusions in the matter. He alone will 


l’americaine. 


33 


authorize you to quit Europe. Your ticket will be 
his prescription." 

“Cured!" thought Sylvia, whose eyes instinctively 
followed Georges de Solis, who was talking with Miss 
Eva and Mademoiselle Offenburger, in the light of a 
large lamp at the farther end of the room. 

Miss Eva was in a bantering mood, recalling to 
M. de Solis what he had said to Norton about 
America and American women. Laughing merrily, 
she said: 

“Ah! it appears, monsieur, that you do not like 
us." 

“Mademoiselle!" 

“Oh, you are free to think what you like of the 
American women; for my part I think your Paris- 
iennes are exquisite. I can understand how they 
may be preferred to all other women. And yet I 
am a patriot to my finger ends. Nothing in the 
world is equal to America. Nothing except Paris. 
Is it not so, Mademoiselle Helene?" 

“Oh! that depends," said Mademoiselle Offen- 
burger, speaking seriously. “Paris seems to me to 
be a city given over to thoughts — so — so unimpor- 
tant." 

“Bah!" said Berniere drawing near. Liliane, 
who had heard this blasphemy, came also to defend 


134 


l’americaine. 


her Paris — that Paris which had been so gaily con- 
quered by America. 

“How unimportant; the fashions, the theatres, 
the races, the salon, the art exhibitions?” 

“All that is important but not serious,” said Mile. 
Helene. 

“My daughter and myself would like to see more 
crafity in the nation, for the vuture testiny of France. 
My daughter as well as myself, fancies that the vuture 
testiny of France would be better assured if the 
national character had a little more crafitv ,” added 
the big Offenburger in his guttural accent. 

“ Crafity ! crafity /” Berniere was strongly tempted 
to fling his gravity in his teeth and to beg that he 
would at least speak French when discussing the 
future of France. 

Miss Eva slowly answered the learned Jewess: 

“I, who am a Yankee in the strictest sense; I, 
who am proud to say that the hotel at the park 
Monceau belongs to my uncle, Richard Norton, an 
American, that its conservatory is illuminated by 
Edison lights — Edison, an American — that it is 
adorned with paintings by Mr. Harrison — ” 

“Hum!” muttered Montgomery, who did not 
relish hearing his wife’s first husband spoken of. 

“Harrison an American,” Miss Eva went on; “I 


l’americaine. 


135 


who adore New York, who am, I repeat, proud of my 
country, who think that America has no rivals, I 
avow that Paris does not displease me greatly. I 
thought I should be homesick for Brooklyn bridge 
— not yet — I adore the theatre; and in this respect 
Paris, which I do not like in all points of view, is 
incomparable. Do you not think so?” she added, 
addressing Mile. Offenburger. 

“My daughter,” answered the fat Hamburger, 
“detests plays.” 

“Ah! What is Mile. Offenburger doing in Paris 
then; looking after her health?” 

“Her purgatory, perhaps,” said Berniere. 

“She prefers the Sorbonne,” answered the father. 

“And the College of France,” gravely added 
Mile. Helene. 

Berniere, leaning toward the doctor, whispered 
gaily, “She is no woman, but a thesis.” 

The doctor, who was looking for his hat, found 
himself near Mrs. Montgomery, who asked him, 
merrily: 

“By the way, doctor, what about my neuralgia?” 

“Oh, your neuralgia is a negligible quantity. It 
amounts to nothing at all.” 

“But do you not fear that the sea air ” 

“Oh! You want me to send you to Vichy, do you?” 


1 3 6 


l’americaine. 


“Not at all. I am having an excellent time at 
Trouville, but I dread the ” 

“The sea air? It is excellent, I assure you.” 

“But you said the contrary last year!” 

“Because it was last year. The fashion changes. 
Last year you wanted to go to Luchon.” 

“Then Trouville is not bad for headaches?” 

“It is perfect — only — I need not say to you that — 
have you brought with you — ” 

“Those valerian pellets you prescribed?” 

“No, trunks. Plenty of trunks — costumes — four 
changes a day. Now, for exercise, that is excel- 
lent.” 

“What are you talking about, doctor?” said Mrs. 
Montgomery. “If I had not my portable gymnastic 
apparatus with me I should not be here.” 

She laughed, while Montgomery, approaching 
Fargeas, inquired, in a low tone: 

“My wife’s illness is imaginary, isn’t it?” 

“Not even imaginary. Only a little nervous 
malady, which, however, she bears very well.” 

“And Mrs. Norton?” 

“Ah, that is another thing. Have you not 
noticed her pretty white complexion, the skin fine 
and velvety looking as if lined with a transparent 
pink silk?” 


l’americaine. 


137 


“The American women have the finest complex- 
ions in the world, doctor.” 

“Well, the daughters of rheumatic parents alone 
have as pretty ones. Now Mrs. Norton is really an 
invalid,” said the doctor, who watched Sylvia as he 
went toward the door. 

“Her illness is not imaginary, then?” said Mont- 
gomery. 

“Well, perhaps imagination may play a part in 
that illness also. Imagination or — memory.” 

“Poor Norton!” murmured Montgomery, “he 
loves her so.” 

“Oh, there is no danger, be assured. Good- 
night,” said Fargeas, who put on his hat and retired 
abruptly. 

Moreover, the evening was advancing. Since the 
arrival of Georges de Solis, a sort of peculiar con- 
straint had pervaded the parlors and hovered over 
Mr. Norton’s guests. Miss Arabella stopped play- 
ing and was now sitting in a corner, surrounded by 
her father and mother, who were talking to her in a 
low voice. Her air was disdainful, and from time 
to time she cast languishing looks at the marquis 
and Berniere who were talking with Eva. Offen- 
burger felt inclined to make a tour of the Casino, 
and Mrs. Montgomery, fancying that Sylvia needed 


138 


l’americaine. 


to be alone, dragged her husband toward the 
door. 

“We shall be in time for the after-piece,” she 
said. “They play a comedy this evening, an unpub- 
lished piece. Come, we shall be late.” 

“I should like it better if it had been published,” 
said Montgomery. “There would be more chance 
of its not being bad.” 

However, he allowed himself to be persuaded, 
and Liliane in passing Sylvia, pressed her hand 
significantly as if to say: 

“Courage!” or “Take care.” 

Norton had appeared anxious or thoughtful at 
least, within the last few minutes. It seemed to him 
that Solis was embarrassed and silent before Sylvia. 
He had an impression of something vague, indistinct 
and disturbing in the situation which he could not 
divine. This impression had neither form nor 
name, but evidently the arrival of Solis had pro- 
voked, perhaps by chance, an unwonted emotion. 

And why did these words of the marquis, uttered 
in the conversation he had recently had with de 
Solis, return again and again so invincibly to Nor- 
ton’s memory: 

“I will never marry an American.” 


l’americaine. 


139 


He could only ask himself over and over again, 
“Why not?” 

“Be it so,” thought Richard, who was not given 
to long reveries. “We shall see.” 

Up to the moment of parting, Solis had exchanged 
only a few commonplaces with Sylvia. This could 
hardly have been otherwise, however, as Colonel 
Dickson, with a persistence worthy of abetter cause, 
had indiscreetly mingled in the conversation. 

Offenburger’s expressed desire to visit the 
Casino, and Sylvia’s evident indisposition made it 
necessary to bring the entertainment to a close. 
Georges excused himself and took his leave as soon 
as he noticed that the guests were departing. He, 
also, experienced a sort of oppression — a need to 
escape — to breathe at his ease. 

“Good-night,” said Norton. 

“Good-night.” 

“I hope soon to have the honor of seeing Mad- 
ame de Solis. Give her my respects.” 

He had held out his hand, and under Sylvia’s 
calm, sweet look, Georges de Solis had taken it — 
that loyal hand of the husband — with an almost im- 
perceptible hesitation. 

Then he turned to Mrs. Norton, bowed, and said 
simply: 


140 


l’americaine. 


“Madame.” 

“Monsieur,” uttered in a low, almost extinguished 
voice, was Sylvia’s response. 

Norton thought them ceremonious to the last 
degree. 

“Oh! no,” said he, in his strong voice. “Shake 
hands in the American fashion,” and, anxious to 
bring those two, who were so dear to him, together, 
he stood there while Georges and Sylvia clasped 
each other’s hands. 

Colonel Dickson looked on, from his intermina- 
ble height, at this little by-play, whistling softly in 
his yellow beard, for he remembered very well hav- 
ing seen the Marquis de Solis at Mr. Harley’s in 
New York, and he would have been willing to bet a 
thousand dollars that Miss Harley was not insensi- 
ble to the marquis in those days. 

“What a simple fellow Norton is,” thought the 
colonel. “Or may be he is not together so naif as 
he seems.” 

When Norton was alone in the parlor with his 
niece and Mrs. Norton he said to Eva: 

“What do you think of M. de Solis?” 

“I think he is charming,” she answered. “It is 
easy to see that he has traveled in America.” The 


l’americaine. 


141 

young girl then held her forehead to her uncle and 
her hand to Sylvia and added, “Good-night.” 

“Good-night, dear child.” 

“You are not suffering really, are you?” said 
Norton to his wife. And he looked at her with an 
anxious yearning expression in his eyes. 

“No, I thank you. It is nothing. A little fatigue 
only. To-morrow I shall be all right.” 

To-morrow! That was precisely the thought, the 
word which had come into Norton’s brain. To-mor- 
row! to-morrow he should know if it were Sylvia 
who had caused the Marquis de Solis to say, “I 
shall never, never marry an American.” 

“You are right, dear Sylvia. Go to bed. I have 
to work. Good-bye till to-morrow.” 

On the way to the Casino, where the Dicksons 
were going to rejoin the Montgomerys, the colonel 
said to Arabella: 

“The marquis is a fine fellow.” 

“And the viscount is very nice,” added the 
colonel’s wife. 

“What do you think of them, Arabella?” 

“Mamma!” 

“I ask you what you think of them.” 

Then in the night under the mysterious stars, 
the handsome Arabella said in her musical voice: 


142 


’americaine. 


“I certainly like the marquis better, but I should 
be satisfied perfectly with either. I am wholly in- 
different.” 

“Very well,” said the colonel and his wife in the 
same breath. 


CHAPTER V. 


Georges de Solis and Berniere went away alone 
through the deserted streets. Berniere was smoking 
a final cigar and breathing the salt air, and in spite 
of his pessimism, which he carried about with him 
as conspicuously as the jeweled pin in his scarf, he 
found a pleasure in walking under the clear sky, 
studded with stars, on this fine summer night. The 
two cousins did not talk. Berniere was humming an 
air from Wagner and the marquis was thinking. 

He had just experienced one of the most piquant 
emotions of his life, though he had so mastered his 
feelings that none had noticed his agitation. He had 
not believed it possible that after the lapse of so 
many years his love for Sylvia could have remained 
so strong. At best he had not been conscious of it. 
To him this love was one of those assuaged pains, 
which had become dear to him and to which he 
clung as to a memory of some suffering felt a long 
time, but also long ago ended — a pain which had 
been mellowed by time into the semblance of a 
pleasure. And now suddenly all was re-awakened 
to a fresh life. The dormant agony was making 
itself felt again in all its intensity. 


144 


l’americaine. 


There was nothing romantic in this meeting. It 
was very simple that Georges should go at once to 
visit Richard whom he loved, and Sylvia, having be- 
come Norton’s wife, it was quite natural that the 
sentiment of the past should be merged into a sym- 
pathy composed of devotion and respect. Life is 
full of these unfinished romances. But in the first 
pressure of hands with Sylvia, Solis had felt, almost 
with affright, an unexpected tremor. 

He bore away with him, from this interview with 
Sylvia, an impression which troubled, which irritated 
him, and which made him regret, both that he had 
seen Sylvia again and that he had quitted her so 
abruptly. 

For really he had said nothing to her. And what 
had she said to him? He might have been a mere 
chance comer, an indifferent, an unknown, and she 
would not have accorded to him a different re- 
ception. 

Yes, but the involuntary trembling of that hand 
held out to him — that tremor which he alone felt — 
that instinctive trembling spoke more eloquently 
than uttered words, and the marquis, after having 
sought forgetfulness at the ends of the earth, had 
come back to find himself face to face with this 
woman whom he had never again expected to see. 


l’americaine. 


MS 

Are we sure there is a never in this world where 
there is no always? 

On the way to his lodging Solis was still thinking 
of Sylvia. She was very pretty. As pretty as when 
he knew her. Prettier indeed, with her air of suffer- 
ing, her look of gentle sadness. And what a winning 
smile! It was exquisitely sweet. He recalled — his 
recollections were much confused — he knew not 
what phrase where Shakespeare says, speaking of 
some one dead, as a supreme eulogy: 

“She was sweet.” 

“The sweetness, the virtue of the woman;” he 
thought, almost aloud. 

And as if he had been following a similar line^of 
thought, Berniere, who had been humming a tune, 
suddenly remarked between two puffs of smoke 
from his cigar. 

“These American girls, say what you will, are 
nice enough to eat.” 

“They are very pretty,” said Solis. 

“That Miss Dickson for instance. She is too 
tall, too sculptural, but what a profile she has. 
What handsome shoulders. She is like a beautiful 
piece of marble. The banker’s little daughter, so 
plump, always reminds me of a quail trotting about 

the feet of a statue. But I like best Norton’s niece. 

10 


146 


i/americaine. 


A saucy minx, that Miss Eva, and cunning and 
wicked. Ah! these Americans are real women.” 

A few steps farther on, Berniere threw away his 
cigar and added: 

“Mrs. Norton is the handsomest one of the lot.” 

“That is my opinion also,” said Solis, very 
coldly. 

“A little neuropathic, but Fargeas has made 
nervous disorders fashionable. It is like the vapors 
which were so much in vogue in the eighteenth 
century. It is a malady easily borne and gives one 
distinction.” 

“Do not speak of the faults which are fashion- 
able. You, yourself have one which might be 
mentioned.” 

“What? Pessimism?” 

“Since that is its name, yes.” 

“Oh! you know I am only a sort of platonic 
pessimist. There are extremists. I know some 
people who think the world is all wrong; who 
declare themselves disgusted with their destiny; 
who are ready to give up their existence at the 
slightest provocation, fainting if the soft boiled egg 
served at breakfast is not absolutely fresh. Pure 
pessimism is one of the forms of sybaritism. It is 
the art of maligning life while regaling oneself on 


L AMERICAINE. 


147 


Milanese ragouts. Pessimism especially asserts 
itself at table between charming women and choice 
dishes.” 

“Does not this seem ridiculous to you?” 

“No, it seems strange. As long as it lasts, I 
follow the current, as I follow the fashion in smok- 
ing jackets and hats, without exaggeration. But 
the pessimism which the decadents wear is a hat 
out of fashion. It is nowworn only in the provinces. 
So you see, I use it at Trouville. In Paris, next 
winter, we will wear something else. And it will be 
the same thing identically.” 

They were walking slowly, finding pleasure in 
talking, and Solis now tried to prove to his cousin 
that this affectation of pessimism, this playing at 
decadentism, at which Berniere himself was ready 
to scoff, might be pardonable on condition that the 
comedy come to an end. 

“What end?” 

“Oh! the simplest in the world. Make for your- 
self an aim in life.” 

“I have one — to kill time.” 

“Work.” 

“Very well, it is work, and hard work to 
exist.” * 

“Do not speak nonsense, since you are not given 


148 


l’americaine. 


to committing follies. Do you not think of marry- 
ing?” 

<‘And you?” 

“Oh! I ?” said Solis, whose voice Berniere thought 
became more serious, “I have my mother.” 

“And I — I have myself. There is an enormous 
difference between us,” said the viscount. “I do not 
speak of age. In fact you are younger than I, not 
only in enthusiasm but in appearance. I am not 
willing to alienate my liberty as M. Prudhomme 
would say. While your mother, ah! your mother, 
poor dear woman, would be so happy to know that 
you had a fireside of your own, and that you would 
no more go to dabble in the mud of Tonquin, that 
you would stay with her and your wife, and that — 
you know the fairy stories. ‘They were happy 
ever after and had a large family of beautiful chil- 
dren.’ ” 

“I do not believe in fairy stories,” said Solis. 

“And you are one of the enthusiasts and do not 
believe in fairy tales.” And imitating the tone of 
one of the actors then in vogue, he went on in his 
feigned voice: “They do not believe in fairy tales, 
and we do believe in them, we pessimists, we believe 
in them only. And there are no more fairy tales? 
But unhappy one, you perhaps believe in history, 


l’americaine. 


149 


that gigantic lie? You only need to believe in the 
newspapers to be perfect.” 

He became suddenly serious after this outburst, 
and striking his cousin on the shoulder he said: 

“How is it possible not to believe in fairies when 
one sees my aunt? I, who have neither father nor 
mother, I envy you. And when I say I have no 
mother I am an ingrate, for she loves me like my 
own mother. Well, I know what your mother is 
thinking about and hoping for; perhaps she will not 
tell it you, but it is to grow old near you, by your 
side and the side of another and to become a 
grandmother as in those admirable fairy tales which 
you despise, sham believer that you are, a paladin 
who denies chivalry.” 

Solis stopped and in the clear night tried to 
make out from Paul’s countenance how much there 
was of seriousness in this confidence. 

Then it was true? The marchioness had often 
spoken to her nephew of her dream — the marriage 
of her son. She formerly had such ambitions, 
Georges was well aware of it. But the time had 
passed. Was she still cherishing such hopes? 

“Does she think about your marriage? Why, my 
dear, she thinks about nothing else. And do you 
want me to tell you something? Well, it depends 


i5o 


l’americaine. 


only on yourself if you wish to remain a bachelor. 
Your mother is studying the young girls as Mrs. 
Dickson counts off on her fingers the eligible young 
men. She must have dreamed of fishing for a 
daughter-in-law at Trouville-sur-Mer.” 

“You are mad,” said Solis. 

“That may be, but I am not a fool. Believe me 
when I say that however little you may be wearied 
with your nomadic life, if you find a woman who 
pleases you — I do not refer to Arabella for example, 
I do not advise you to choose Arabella — you will 
fill your mother with joy if you ask her to receive 
her as a daughter. That is my aunt’s secret. Per- 
hapsshewill notspeakto you about it. But I speak to 
you of it, and I will say further, that if my marriage 
could bring yours about, I give you my word I would 
be capable of sacrificing myself and some morning I 
would go down to the beach and throw my heart 
into the crowd — not to Arabella, no, Arabella always 
excepted. Arabella is too handsome for me.” 

“Take care,” said the marquis without respond- 
ing to the advice of his cousin, “perhaps it is she 
who threatens you.” 

“It is possible. Life is so comical. But it would 
be less comical by the side of this companion in 
marble, ’ 


l’americaine. 


151 

They had now come to the end of the street and 
stopped before Madame de Solis’ lodgings. 

“Good-night, Georges, think of what I have 
said. It is very serious.” 

“I will think about it, but my reflections have 
already been made. I marry? It is too late; I 
shall never leave the marchioness. The voyages 
and travels are all ended. I shall grow old in the 
chimney corner. My poor mother can ask no more.” 

“Yes, yes, she can. She would like ” And 

Berniere made with his hand the gesture of stroking 
the head of a little child. 

“Oh!” said Solis, in a voice suddenly become 
bitter. “Children, for the pleasure there is in liv- 
ing!” The viscount began to laugh heartily. 

“Well, this is superb. And you reproach me 
with pessimism. Why, you are the perfect pessimist, 
unhappy man!” 

“No,” said Solis, “on the contrary, there is a 
blighted love which bears a close resemblance to 
misanthropy.” 

“That is to say ” 

“Nothing!” 

“But you were going to say ” 

As Solis did not answer, his cousin bade him 
good-night laughingly, and added: 


152 


l’americaine. 


“I am going to make a tour of the gaming tables. 
It is only eleven o’clock. I would be disgraced if I 
went to bed with the chickens. I will see you on 
the beach to-morrow.” 

“Good-night ” anwsered Solis. 

The next day brought meetings of the same 
friends and acquaintances and the same conversa- 
tions. The same lazy, monotonous life of the sea- 
side was recommenced in which the days succeeded 
each other in the presence of the marvelous sea, old 
as creation and yet ever new, in which the elegance 
of Paris is wedded to the calm, the restfulness of the 
province. 

• Berniere found on the sand in the shade of para- 
sols the guests of Richard Norton — the doctor, 
Georges de Solis, and Mrs. Montgomery, who had 
just come from her bath. She was radiant in her 
fresh beauty and with her hair still damp. She gave 
a salutation to Fargeas, a “my dear marquis” to 
Solis, and a “ good morning, my dear,” to the 
-viscount. 

“Well,” said the doctor, looking at her, “she 
is brilliant this morning. What a radiant face!” 

“ Don’t speak of it. In taking my bath just now 
I had a sunstroke.” 

“For whom,” asked Berniere. 


l’americaine. 


153 


Mrs. Montgomery laughed. 

“For no one, impudent! And yet, I confess the 
Prince Koretoff, who waltzed with me yesterday — is 
charming.” 

“Because he is a prince. But you know all Rus- 
sians are princes!” 

“Ah!” said Berniere. “That should not displease 
the American ladies who would like to be princesses.” 

The doctor checked the viscount with a sign — 
“If Mr. Montgomery were to hear you.” 

“Oh!” said Liliane; “he hears enough about it. 
He knows my weakness.” 

“For the nobility — you have a great respect for 
titles in America,” and Fargeas shook his head. 

“ Everything which bears a title, not due to money, 
dazzles you. But do you not know that titles may 
be bought?” 

Mrs. Montgomery had seated herself by the doc- ' 
tor, her red umbrella giving a yet more brilliant tint 
to her already fresh pink and white complexion. 

“Certainly,” she said. “I have a prospectus from 
Italy. Mr. Montgomery is studying it now — ” 

“ And where is Mr. Montgomery?” 

“What? You ask such a question! Why he is 
at Deauville, to be sure. Look at your watch, It 
is the hour of Miss Dickson’s bath,” 


154 


l’americaine. 


“ The colonel’s daughter?” 

“ Oh! the colonel. You know in America the 
colonels swarm. They tell a story of how the late 
Barnum, the great showman, wished to exhibit 
among his curiosities, as one of the most astonish- 
ing, an old soldier of the war of secession who did 
not bear the title of colonel. This phenomenon 
lived in a remote corner of Florida. When Barnum 
went to engage him, the famous non-colonel was 
dead. The story goes that no other specimen was 
ever found. As to Colonel Dickson, he is only a 
militia colonel.” 

“ Then,” added Berniere, “Miss Dickson is the 
daughter of the National Guard.” 

“ At any rate she dazzles Europe with her mag- 
nificent shoulders. Why, the daily bath of Miss 
Dickson is an event at Deauville. Omnibuses are 
loaded with the curious who take this means to 
arrive in time for the ceremony. Why everybody 
has shoulders. And if you wished — ” 

“ Oh! Madame, a little charity, please!” said the 
viscount in a beseeching tone. 

“ It is Mrs. Montgomery against Miss Dickson,” 
said the doctor. “The North and the South.” 

Berniere added gallantly, “We will be for the 
Union.” 


l’americaine. 


155 


Then his attention was attracted to a distant 
group which was advancing along the board walk. 
First came the oolonel, whose long legs gave him the 
appearance of an exaggerated heron. By his side 
marched Mrs. Dickson, and between them was the 
handsome daughter, while a fat, red-faced man 
dressed in a light gray suit brought up the rear. 

“Why, upon my word, there is Miss Arabella. 
Why how is this? At Trouville at this hour! What 
will Deauville say? She has not taken her bath then.” 

“Indeed;” and Liliane leveled her glasses in the 
direction of the Americans. “Then the reporters 
must have telegraphed the news to the New York 
Herald . Yes, it is she, and my husband with her.” 

“Flirting!” 

It was indeed Mr. Montgomery, and Miss Ara- 
bella was not coming from her bath. She had been 
sitting for her portrait that morning and Montgom- 
ery passing before their hotel, Mr. Dickson had in- 
vited him to come in and see the picture, in which 
Miss Arabella was represented on horseback, on 
the beach, like Olivares in the saddle. Mr. Mont- 
gomery had entered, smiled at the portrait and was 
making himself generally agreeable when some one 
named the artist, Edward Harrison. That traitor 
of a Harrison! 


156 


l’americaine. 


Then Montgomery had brought the Dicksons 
to Trouville in his carriage. The portrait which was 
Miss Dickson’s sole thought became at once the 
all absorbing topic of conversation. 

“You see, madam, Mr. Montgomery is flirting 
with Miss Dickson.” 

“Oh, let him flirt. He is not dangerous,” 
answered Mrs. Montgomery. 

“You are right, Miss Arabella,” repeated Mont- 
gomery, advancing toward the group formed by 
Liliane, Berniere, the doctor and M. de Solis. “Your 
portrait, thanks to you, for the artist is only an in- 
strument — your portrait will be an astonishing suc- 
cess. A chef d' oeuvre" 

“You think so?” 

“Almost as pretty as you are.” 

“Pretty, but dear,” muttered the colonel; “devilish 
dear!” 

“Bah! they will pay to see it.” 

“Why, that is an idea!” said Dickson. 

The mother was speaking in a low tone to Ara- 
bella, at the same time pointing to the people seated 
near Liliane. 

“I need not call your attention to the fact that the 
Marquis de Solis is there,” she said. 

“Very well, mamma/’ 


L AMERICAINE. 


157 


“And M. de Berniere is sitting near him.” 

“I see, mamma; but,” she had her own opinion, 
“I like the marquis better.” 

“Evidently!” retorted the mother. 

They were still talking of the portrait, in spite of 
Montgomery’s efforts to change a conversation which 
was becoming embarrassing to him, when they took 
their places by the side of Dr. Fargeas and his 
friends under the great umbrella. 

“A portrait! What portrait?” asked Liliane, 
who had overheard and was very curious. 

Arabella answered in a languid voice, lazily 
letting her words/fall, one after another: 

“Oh, a portrait of myself, which I am having 
done for the Mirlitons.” 

“Who is doing it?” asked Liliane. 

Montgomery answered quickly: 

“A painter, a bird of passage, at Deauville.” 

“A bird of passage?” said Arabella, as if 
wounded. “Mr. Harrison has the finest villa at 
Deauville. 

Liliane repeated to herself: “For the Mirlitons? 
Harrison? A portrait?” 

“Oh! it is only a sketch, a simple sketch,” said 
Montgomery, as if he wished to diminish in some 
sort the credit of his predecessor. 


158 


l’americaine. 


“Yes,” said Arabella, “a sketch merely dashed off, 
but done with a — a — How shall I say, Monsieur le 
Marquis?” 

And she turned to Solis who had remained silent. 

“ With a brio — a chic — a dash,” she went on 
accenting these Parisianisms. 

“I do not know exactly,” said the marquis, begin- 
ning to smile. 

“Call it dash,” said the doctor. “And so it is, 
this portrait which has hindered you from taking 
your customary — ” 

“My bath? Yes; a last sitting. I am tired of 
posing like this — ” 

And by the aid of a chair which did duty as a 
horse, she indicated a pose, a little stilted, the hand 
holding the reins, the head turned aside and the eye 
attempting a dreamy expression. 

“Oh! how graceful,” said Berniere. 

“Mr. Harrison has the idea of representing me as 
a naiad,” added the handsome Miss Dickson with 
perfect simplicity. 

“What an excellent idea,” said Berniere, while 
Liliane, with an ironical smile on her lips said: 

“As a naiad?” 

But the colonel interposed with dignity, “Oh! 
there are naiads and naiads. An Undine if you 


l’americaine. 


159 


will, but an Undine comme il faut — a respectable 
Undine.” 

“Yes,” added the mother, “with enough — ” 

“And not too much,” completed the daughter. 

Liliane leaned toward Berniere and said in a low 
tone, while a malicious smile revealed her perfect 
teeth: 

“Not too much in the way of drapery, she 
means.” 

The viscount was about to repeat this mot for 
the delectation of the company when the colonel 
very gravely, and in the manner of a clergyman be- 
ginning his sermon, pointed out the sense in which 
Mrs. Dickson and himself understood the words 
“ enough,” and “ not too much.” 

“ In a portrait,” he said, “ as in a conversation, 
there is a point where propriety ends and the des- 
habille begins. In this the whole art of respectability 
lies.” 

“So,” interrupted Mrs. Dickson, as if she were re- 
peating something she had learned by rote, “ with a 
friend, a relative, a stranger; there is a particular and 
appropriate degree of respectability to be observed. 
People who are accustomed to traveling as we 


are- 


i6o 


l’americaine. 


“Do these ladies like excursions?” asked Ber- 
niere, addressing the colonel. 

The latter answered: “They have traveled a 
great deal.” 

“Then,” continued Mrs. Dickson, “you can im- 
agine that in the tables d hote one meets all sorts of 
people, some individualities, in fact, which are not 
pleasant.” 

“Types,” said Arabella coldly. 

“Mrs. Dickson has taught her daughter,” the 
colonel went on, “ what pleasantries may be per- 
mitted to a stranger, according to his rank or station 
in society.” 

“To a cousin by the degree of relationship,” said 
Mrs. Dickson, by way of completing the illustra- 
tion. 

“To her cousin, very well !” interrupted Liliane, 
“but to her painter?” 

Montgomery coughed lightly and came near Lil- 
iane’s chair, while the colonel’s wife whispered to 
her daughter: 

“ Do you look out for the marquis.” 

“ Very well, mamma.” 

“ Her painter! ” said Montgomery, in a low voice, 
to his wife. “Truly one would say that you are 
jealous of Miss Arabella.” 


l’americaine. 


161 


“Yes, I do not deny it; I am jealous.” 

“You acknowledge it then!” 

“I do indeed. She has had her portrait painted 
.for the Mirlitons, and perhaps for the approaching 
Salon, as well, by an artist of reputation, of very con- 
siderable reputation.” 

“Oh! artists all have a reputation,” interrupted 
Montgomery. 

“Not so much as Harrison,” replied Mrs. Mont- 
gomery decisively. 

“Harrison, Harrison. You are always talking to 
me of Harrison. It seems to me, that less than any 
one else, you should ” 

He stopped, fearing he might be overheard, and 
rising, he feigned to observe through his marine 
glasses, a steamer which was passing at a distance. 
But while Arabella, following the advice of her 
mother, was trying to engage in a conversation with 
Solis, Liliane rose in her turn and said to Montgom- 
ery: 

“I should what? I ought, I suppose, to cry down 
Edward Harrison’s talent because he was once my 
husband. The husband has nothing in common 
with the artist.” 

“For you possibly. For me, however, the two 

become confounded, and, when I hear them spoken 

n 


i 62 


l’americaine. 


of, I can not help feeling a little irritation, easy to 
understand.” 

“Then, my dear, you will have to accustom your- 
self to hearing Edward spoken of. He bears a cel- 
ebrated name. It is in all the newspapers, I assure 
you.” 

“I hope they will not print yours with it,” said 
Montgomery. “They print whatever they please, 
though. So he has a celebrated name, has he? 
Well I, too, have a celebrated name.” 

“With only one m .” 

“The devil! I can not be Montgomery of New 
York and Montgommery of the time of Henry II at 
the same time. It is not possible I have made a 
fortune over my counter, and I have not put out the 
eye of a king of France in a tourney. I have never 
put out the eye of any one. And it is well, perhaps, 
for if I had knocked out any one’s eye in a tourna- 
ment the prefect of police ” 

He essayed to jest, but Liliane was not in the 
humor to tolerate his pleasantries. 

“You are absurd,” she said, “but do you wish to 
do me a favor and thus make up for some of your 
shortcomings?” 

“Have I many shortcomings?” 

“Not many. But to make me forget them I want 


l’americaine. 


163 


you to so arrange that at the next salon, or at Mir- 
liton’s, you understand, by the side of the portrait 
of Arabella as a respectable naiad, there shall be a 
good one of me as a — goddess.” 

“As a goddess? By Harrison?” 

“By Harrison. He is the only living artist who 
is capable of faithfully rendering my style of phy- 
siognomy. Well, is it a bargain?” 

“What?” 

“Why, the portrait.” 

“By — him?” 

“By Edward.” 

“I forbid you to call him Edward,” said the now 
exasperated Montgomery. 

With a wheedling, caressing gesture, Liliane stole 
up to the irate No. 2, softly putting her arm in his 
and holding her red umbrella over him and said, 
while she gave him a. tender look: 

“My dear Lionel — my good Lionel — is not angry 
with his little wife?” 

“Oh! Liliane, Liliane!” Montgomery felt himself 
weakening. “Well, I will see about it,” he said. 

“Oh! Lionel,” repeated Liliane supplicatingly. 

“Yes, yes — I agree — I will write to him. But 
after this proof — of love, of devotion — of— confi- 
dence — of — abnegation ” 


L AMERICAJNE. 


I64 


“Well, after all that, I will ask other sacrifices in 
turn. Oh! I shall have my portrait,” said Liliane, 
clapping her hands. 

And she turned a little triumphantly toward Ara- 
bella. 

Montgomery had been thinking deeply in the 
meantime, and he asked himself the question 
whether it were quite proper that a divorced hus- 
band should be allowed to paint his wife’s portrait. 

“What shall we do to-day?” asked Arabella, in 
her strident voice. “Will some one accompany me 
on my yacht? Will not Monsieur de Solis?” 

And as the marquis smilingly bowed his excuses, 
Berniere advancing said: 

“We shall be very happy, Miss Dickson.” 

Arabella shrugged her pretty shoulders. 

“Oh, you! You are no sailor. You do not seem 
to have a pair of sea legs.” 

“My legs are good enough, but it is the stomach 
which is unseaworthy. When I am on the water it 
is apt to turn, you understand?” 

“And you become sea-sick?” 

“Generally.” 

At this moment Miss Dickson uttered a joyous 
little cry, on seeing Miss Meredith, who was coming 
toward them, with a book under her arm. 


l’americaine. 


165 


“A recruit, bravo!” 

Miss Meredith had hardly come within ear shot, 
when Arabella asked, in the tone of one giving an 
order: 

“You are coming with us, Eva?” 

“Where?” 

“I do not know. To Honfleur, by sea; any- 
where, to England, perhaps.’*' 

“No, I shall stay at Trouville. I am not a yachts- 
woman, like you.” 

“Indeed!” said Berniere. 

“A yachtswoman? Yes,” said Colonel Dickson, 
very proudly. “And a bicyclist, also. She is cor- 
respondent of the London Yacht Club, and she won 
a gold medal at the Dover regatta.” 

The viscount turned to Arabella, and bowing 
low, he said: 

“My compliments, Miss Dickson.” 

The handsome Liliane, who had heard, called to 
her husband, who was talking with Dr. Fargeas. 

“What is it, my friend?” asked Montgomery, 
advancing. 

“I want you to find me two sponsors at the yacht 
club and buy me a yacht. I do not want it to be 
said that I am not in the movement.” 

“The devil!” said the little fat man. “If Miss Dick- 


1 66 


l’americaine. 


son stays a month longer at Deauville, and you imi- 
tate all her fantasies — ” 

“Well, and then?” 

“Well, then, I shall be ruined.” Liliane looked 
at him with an air of contemptuous pity. 

“Oh! Mr. Montgomery, I again pardon you for 
not being one of the Montgommerys of France.” 

“You pardon me for not having taken my part in 
the tourney?” 

“But take notice, I will not pardon you for being 
stingy. Go and buy the yacht.” 

“Who loves me, follows me,” cried Miss Dickson 
gaily, while Mrs. Montgomery murmured between 
her pretty teeth: “Yes, I will follow you.” 

“Come, let us start,” said Arabella, turning 
toward Georges. 

“Arabella will play a solo on her violoncello 
while we are upon the sea,” said the colonel, speak- 
ing from the top of his long beard. 

“All the talents,” murmured Berniere. 

“That might properly be her name,” responded 
Mrs. Dickson. “She is a bicyclist of the first order; 
she photographs like Nadar. She has all the accom- 
plishments; yes.” 

And “all-the-accomplishments” shot an engaging 


l’americaine. 


167 


glance toward the Marquis de Solis, bent her statu- 
esque neck and cooingly said: 

“Are you not coming with us, Monsieur le Mar- 
quis?” 

“I pray you to excuse me, mademoiselle,” an- 
swered Solis. “I am obliged to stay here. I expect 
some one.” 

“In spite of the violoncello?” whispered his cousin 
Berniere. 

Miss Dickson appeared to be slightly piqued at 
the marquis’ slighting reply. 

“Ah! so much the worse. I regret it — for us.” 

“He is expecting Miss Eva,” said Montgomery 
to his wife, who, looking at Solis with a stupefied 
air, could not help saying to him: 

“Oh! you are very sly, very sly.” 

While the colonel and Dr. Fargeas started off 
together, Mrs. Dickson said to her daughter in a 
low tone: 

“Take M. de Berniere’s arm.” But it seemed 
that Arabella could not take her blue eyes from the 
contemplation of M. de Solis. 

“Take his arm;I tell you, said the mother rapidly, 
“we will look out for the hand of the other one 
later.” 

Georges watched the tall girl march off with 


1 68 


l’americaine. 


Berniere, followed by Mrs. Dickson, who devoured 
her daughter with her great pale blue eyes and then, 
turning to Miss Eva who remained standing near 
him, with the point of her closed umbrella stuck in 
the sand; and her book under her arm, he said: 

“Why did not you go with Miss Dickson’s party? 
Do these seaside gayeties bore you?” 

“No,” said Miss Eva very simply, “I am never 
bored.” 

“Even,” he began to smile, “even when you are 
not in your free America?” 

“Do not laugh, please, I do regret it sometimes,” 
said Miss Meredith, sitting down. “But not al- 
ways, no.” 

Georges remained standing before her, his hands 
resting on the* back of a chair. With her book lying 
upon her knees, and the wind toying with her brown 
hair, which blew about her fine head in beautiful 
confusion, she lifted her black eyes to his as she said: 

“It is pretended that American women have no 
love for their homes.” 

“Yes, it is believed that we all live in hotels and 
boarding-houses, and that we have no homes as 
the English have.” 

“And you regret your home? Then why did you 
leave it?” 


l’americaine. 


169 


There was a pretty mocking expression on Eva’s 
face as she answered: 

“ First, because I was determined to accompany 
my uncle, whom I love very much. Secondly, 
because I wanted to be with Sylvia, whose ill-health 
troubles me not a little, and because I knew that 
Europe must be seen. But, if I was not tempted to 
go on Miss Dickson’s yacht, I shall be glad, oh! so 
glad, when I again put my foot on the steamer 
which is to carry me to New York.” 

“How about France, Paris, Trouville?” asked the 
marquis. 

“Oh! all very pretty, very pretty. I will be can- 
did. It all pleases me. But it is foreign. Besides, 
I do not understand how any one can live where he 
has no memories.” 

“That is very charming, but not very American.” 

“Why?” 

“An American usually lives anywhere and cares 
but little what he leaves behind him when he 
departs. ‘Forward — go ahead,’ seems to be his 
motto.” 

Miss Meredith w^as turning softly, without read- 
ing them, the pages of the book she had brought. 
She stopped and answered the marquis frankly: 

“That is what you were saying a moment ago, 


70 


l’americaine. 


People imagine things. My dear Monsieur de Solis, 
you may know their language, but you do not know 
the American women.” 

“I have seen them in their homes, nevertheless.” 

“Yes, but you judge of them by the specimens 
you have seen away from their homes; the Ameri- 
can women of Paris for example. But they are a 
special sort of Americans, not the real, genuine 
article.” 

“You think so?” 

“I am sure of it. They are cosmopolitan, after 
the fashion of Arabella; educated in a Paris board- 
ing; knowing all the tables d'hote of Europe; spending 
the winter in Florence to learn vocal music; in the 
spring they are at the Bois de Boulogne learning 
horseback riding; in the summer they are at the sea- 
side for bathing, or are learning to sail a yacht. 
Sometimes they are in Switzerland, where, resigning 
the oar for the alpenstock, they scale a peak, as they 
would sail a yacht or break a horse, capable of going 
to see the sun rise at Righi after having seen it set at 
Saint Malo behind the great Be. They are, if you 
please, nomadic travelers, whose fireside is a railroad 
train and whose dwelling is a sleeping car. You 
must not judge us by these birds of passage. There 
are others, not so much noticed, who make no noise 


l’americaine. 


171 

in the world and who are content to be happy in 
their nests.” 

She had said this so prettily, without affectation, 
giving to the words, “their nests,” an expression of 
tender sweetness, a sensation as it were, velvety and 
delicious, so lively was she in her manner, a good 
humored smile accentuating her light mocking tone, 
that Solis looked at her, astonished at her logic and 
charmed with her wit. 

“No one could more ingenuously defend his 
country than you, mademoiselle — ” 

“Because we have a country; yes, patriots. I am 
told that you would laugh at a young French girl 
who would make such a profession of faith.” 

“Who has told you so?” 

“Frenchmen — M. de Berniere, and — ” 

“My cousin? Do not believe a word he says, 
especially when he tells you he has no faith in any- 
thing. It is his braggadocio style of announcing 
what he calls his decadentism. And then we 
Frenchmen have that amiable habit of calumniating 
each other. It is a form of that patriotism of which 
you just now spoke. Do not be astonished, then, if 
we misjudge you, since we are not disposed to do 
justice to our own people.” 

“Do you know,” said Eva, leaning upon the back 


172 


l’americaine. 


of her chair, “what strikes me most, what embar- 
rasses me — in Paris — in France?” 

“What is it, for example?” 

Miss Eva’s umbrella having fallen upon the 
sand, he picked it up quickly and handed it to her. 
While she was opening it he sat down beside the 
young girl and while waiting for her to speak he 
felt a pleasure in forgetting Sylvia for a moment, or 
rather in forgetting to think about her. 

“Yes, what is it, mademoiselle, that embarrasses 
you?” 

“It is that I am always afraid I shall not under- 
stand your witticisms. You all have too much wit.” 

“Bah,” said the marquis. “Do you think so?” 

“I do not speak of you, who never seem to go 
out of your way to indulge in this current mania for 
bon mots , but of the majority of Parisians who seem 
to delight in them. It keeps me perpetually on 
the qui vive. It is an annoyance to one who is in 
the habit of saying things simply and without any 
attempt at double entente. Moreover, one is always 
afraid of losing a squib. And where there are so 
many squibs — ” 

“Then you run away!” 

“Well, you see I give you my impressions just as 
they are.” 


l’americaine. 


173 


'‘You are right in telling them to me.” 

“Besides, though I saw you for the first time 
scarcely twenty-four hours ago, it seems that we 
are old friends. The- fact is that I already know 
you through my Uncle Richard. He loves you so 
much. He has told me how you saved his life. I 
thought such things happened only in romances;” and 
she pointed to the book on her lap. 

“I — I saved his life?” 

“Yes, you.” 

“Never; it was he — ” 

“But it is the truth, for he told us. He repeated 
the story this morning to Sylvia.” 

“Ah!” said Georges, who suddenly became pale. 

“And she was much affected by the story. As 
he was, as I was. But what is the matter, are you 
ill? ,> 

Her beautiful black eyes were interrogating Solis 
who seemed ill at ease. 

“Nothing; it is the memory of the event of which 
you speak.” 

“Oh!” said Eva. “You are right in loving my 
Uncle Richard. He is goodness itself. He is devo- 
tion personified. He has been so good to his own 
people. For me he has replaced a dead father, and 
my mother, the sister of Uncle Richard, had the con- 


174 


l’americaine. 


solation of knowing that when she was gone I should 
have a home. I love, I adore my Uncle Norton. 
Truly, I adore him. And it is because I owe his life 
to you that I like you so much.” 

The marquis tried to smile a little banteringly. 

“Then mademoiselle in this accursed Paris, which 
is so annoying to you, there is at least one French- 
man whom you are willing to take into your good 
graces.” 

She looked the marquis full in the face as if to 
divine his thought, and then with a charming frank- 
ness: 

“ Oh! there are several. First, there is yourself, 
then there is Doctor Fargeas who is attending Syl- 
via with such zeal. Ah! May he cure her quickly and 
allow us to leave Paris. But if you two were all, you 
and he, that would suffice to reconcile me to Paris.” 

“ Thanks!” said Solis laughing, “but you have an 
original way of expressing your friendship for the 
doctor. My. God, grant that I may quit him and 
Paris as soon as possible. That is your prayer?” 

“Yes, that is my thought.” 

“ And when you have gone away, will you not 
regret Paris?” 

“Yes, I said so. Him and you. Bah! America 
is so near!” 


l’americaine. 


175 


“ Yes, you can so easily return to France, you 
know,” explained Solis. 

“ No, not at all,” said Eva joyously, “ it is so easy 
to return to New York.” 

The marquis found in this pretty American girl, 
so profoundly a woman, so serious, yet gay as a 
child — with her sudden sallies, mocking the melan- 
choly reflectiveness of his look — he found in her a 
singular charm, healthful, penetrating and of a sweet 
tenderness, the friendly and soothing charm of a 
being made for the fireside, for the exquisite warmth 
of peaceful domestic happiness. In her little hand 
she held an existence of calm, true joy. 

And Georges sat there talking, forgetful of the 
passing time, and yet, with the inveteracy of a fixed 
idea, thinking of Sylvia, even while contemplating 
Eva, and comparing the strange, blue, meditative 
and mournful eyes of the woman, with the clear, 
black, frank eyes of the girl. 

Little by little the conversation flagged. The 
sun, now approaching the zenith, had lent a scorch- 
ing fervor to the sand, which sparkled under its 
burning rays like spangles of fire, and the waves 
in the distance gave back a blinding glare. Evac, 
under pretext that the heat was too great, rose and 
said: 


176 


L’AMERI CAINE. 


“I am going home. Will you permit me to go 
alone?” 

Solis bowed and rose to accompany her. 

“I have not read my book at all. I like stories 
very much, and yet, it is strange they are all alike.” 

“That is because they resemble life, which is 
commonplace.” 

“Oh! Monsieur le Marquis, I pray you do not let 
us have any more pessimism. Leave that to M. 
Berniere.” 

She was walking by the side of M. de Solis, and 
as she spoke she laughed merrily. “M. Berniere 
is very amusing,” she went on, “but he would make 
me tired in alittle while. He is a Schopenhauer of the 
boulevard. He should be referred to Mademoiselle 
Offenburger.” 

“And Mademoiselle Offenburger would be very 
capable of keeping him,” said the marquis, “which 
would be a great pity, by the way.” 

“Why?” 

“Because my cousin is a good fellow at bot- 
tom.” 

“Well, is not Mademoiselle Offenburger a charm- 
ing young woman?” 

“Yes, she is charming. If an encyclopedia could 
walk, it would be charming also.” 


l’americaine. 


1 77 


. “Then you do not like learned women?” 

“On the contrary. But I do not like an ostenta- 
tious display of learning. You may be as learned 
as Mademoiselle Offenburger, but you do not pro- 
claim it from the housetops.” 

“Because I do not know anything. I have a 
diploma from a cooking-school and I might aspire 
to a professorship in ironing. Yes, I iron all my 
collars myself. It amuses me. But that sort of ac- 
complishment does not count.” 

“I see,” said M. de Solis. “If Moliere were here 
he would not hesitate.” 

They had come upon a sort of pool or rivulet 
formed by the water sent up by the sea at high tide, 
and which had been left in the hollows in the sand. 
Eva stopped and examined the puddle carefully, as 
if to decide whether she could leap over it without 
wetting her shoes. M. de Solis held out his hand to 
her. 

“Do not be in a hurry,” he said; “be careful 
where you step.” 

“Bah! What if I should wet the ends of my 
shoes?” 

“This way, madame,” cried a chorus of childish 
voices. “Here is a bridge.” 

It was true. Over the little pool of sea water 

12 


i 7 8 


l’americaine. 


some boys and girls, gamins and gamines of the 
beach, gavroches of the sea, had put some planks, 
supported by sand heaps, imitating in their construc- 
tion the abutments of bridges, over which promenad- 
'ers might safely pass. 

“If there isn’t a bridge! Let us go by the 
bridge,” said the marquis gaily. 

The gamins disputed possession of the passen- 
gers, like so many porters disputing for the baggage 
of a trader at a railway station. 

“This way, monsieur! Here, madame! Take 
mine, take mine. Mine is the best.” 

Solis had already passed over one of the little 
bridges, and now offered his hand to Eva, who said, 
“Thank you,” and passed over in her turn. 

As the marquis was giving some sous to a boy of 
thirteen or fourteen years, who stood on the other 
side of the little pool, at th^ end of his bridge, Miss 
Meredith was attracted by the appearance of the 
lad. His hair was of a light straw color, and fell in 
straight masses on both sides of his face, fresh and 
red, though much tanned by the sun and the sea air. 

At the same time, the boy recognized the 
American girl, and with cap in one hand, while with 
the other he fumbled in his pocket, where rested 
the sous just given him by the marquis, he said: 


l’americaine. 


179 


“Ah, mademoiselle, I was going to your villa at 
high tide.” 

“Oh! one of your acquaintances, I see!” said the 
marquis. 

The boy nodded, and looked at Eva with his 
clear blue eyes, in which shone the grateful expres- 
sion of a devoted dog. 

“Mademoiselle? Indeed I know her. But the 
other one, where is she?” 

Georges had no need of asking the boy the 
name of that “other,” and in his heart he named her 
— Sylvia. He divined the visits of charity and 
kindness which she had made to these poor 
people. 

In the meantime, the boy was pulling from his 
pocket a package wrapped in a piece of newspaper, 
which he carefully unfolded, as if it contained some 
precious object, and handing to Miss Eva a gold 
bracelet, from which hung a broken chain, he said: 

“ Here is a bracelet some one dropped at 
mamma’s yesterday. It belongs to mademoiselle or 
the other.” 

“It is Sylvia’s,” said Miss Meredith, taking the 
bracelet. 

“How did Mrs. Norton lose it at this child’s 
house?” asked the marquis. 


i8o 


l’americaine. 


Eva laughed — “Oh! we have our little secrets.” 

“The ladies came to see how mamma, who is 
sick, was getting on,” said the boy with a knowing 
air in response to the marquis’ question. “And yes- 
terday — ” 

But Eva interrupted the boy, wishing to give him 
the pleasure of restoring the bracelet to Sylvia, him- 
self: 

“Follow us, my child.” 

With the marquis she took the road to the villa, 
while the gamin, walking by her side, explained in his 
Norman patois, the life they led in the fisher’s hut 
where the American ladies came sometimes, the 
young lady there and the other. 

There had been hard times that winter at 
Ruaud’s. The father had lost his brother who was 
drowned at sea, near Ostend. They had been asso- 
ciated in the fishing, the two brothers. And the 
mother was sick, too, and for a long time had been 
suffering and moaning with a fever. The boy earned 
a few sous each day, with his bridges over the little 
pools of breakwater at the beach during the bathing 
season. In the winter he went to school. When he 
should be grown up, he would be a sailor like his 
father, a sailor first, and a fisherman afterward, like 
all his family. 


l’americaine. 


181 


During the recital of this humble story they 
reached the Norton villa, and Eva having inquired 
if Mrs. Norton was at home, said to the little Ruaud, 
“Come and let the ‘other’ thank you; enter also, M. 
de Solis.” 

Georges hesitated. It seemed to him that he 
would be committing an indiscretion in coming 
back to Mrs. Norton’s so soon. Yet why should he 
hesitate since he was merely accompanying Miss 
Meredith. Should he not serve in his quality of 
attendant cavalier as far as the parlor? 

Sylvia was at home in the same room where, on 
the preceding evening, Georges de Solis had found 
her; where, as if across a chasm formed by the years, 
she had held out to him the hand of a friend. She 
seemed glad that he had come. 

“Welcome,” she said. “I was afraid that your 
wild life acquired by so much travel among the peo- 
ple of Tonquin and Anam might have — ” 

She stopped suddenly, fearing she had said too 
much. She tried to smile, but it was with less assur- 
ance than she would have liked to display. She 
explained to herself, by what she felt, the apparent 
eagerness of M. de Solis. Why should he have come 
again so soon, so quickly? And was she now going 
to live near him and see him frequently? 


182 


L AMERICAINE. 


“My dear Sylvia, another time fasten your brace- 
let more securely. See what the little Ruaud is 
bringing you,” said Miss Meredith. 

The child, who was looking about him, with his 
astonished blue eyes, seeming to regard the room 
with the respect due to the splendors of a church, 
turned quickly on hearing his name. 

“Yes, it appears that it is yourbracelet, madame,” 
he said to Sylvia. “It must have become loosened 
while you were talking to the mother. It was father 
who found it at the foot of the bed when he came in 
from the fishing and said ‘Francis, take that back to 
the American ladies as quickly as you can. They 
may need it when they go to the fete.’ ” 

The clear, ringing laugh of Miss Meredith inter- 
rupted the poor boy. 

“To the fete!” said the girl. “Ah! how amus- 
ing.” 

Francis Ruaud looked a little confused when he 
heard Miss Eva laugh. He feared he had said 
something very foolish. 

But Sylvia quickly reassured him: “Your father 
is a good man. Please thank him for me. My 
bracelet ” 

She took it from Eva’s hand and tried to fasten 
it upon her wrist. 


l’americaine. 


183 

“Will you permit me?” said M. de Solis, mechan- 
ically. 

“Can you?” 

“It is — it is a little difficult,” said the marquis, 
whose fingers were touching Sylvia’s soft skin. “It 
is pretty, finer than the coarse English or Anglo- 
American jewelry so much worn by your country 
women.” 

“Thanks,” interrupted Eva. “Thanks for myself, 
I have one of those horrors you speak of; I wear 
some of that coarse jewelry myself.” 

She showed the marquis a heavy golden chain 
on her wrist with a small padlock and a bunch of 
keys for a fastening. 

“I beg your pardon, I did not see ” 

Georges stammered, while Miss Meredith added 
without any malice: 

“We see what we are looking for.” And ap- 
proaching Sylvia she said: 

“You will never succeed, Monsieur de Solis. 
Let me do it. Your hand trembles. Besides, you 
see, the chain is broken.” 

Sylvia, a little pale, had thanked M. de Solis, and 
not knowing what to say, while Miss Meredith was 
fastening her bracelet, she asked Francis: 

“And how is your mamma?” 


184 


l’americaine. 


“Not very well, thank you. Her back is very 
lame, after the fever. She got a sprain while help- 
ing father turn the capstan. She says it will be 
nothing. But she cries all the time, and that wor- 
ries papa.” 

“Oh, poor man,” said Eva. 

Little Francis shook his head with a serious air, 
and a sad, thoughtful expression passed over his 
handsome, open, childish face. 

“Papa says he must have sleep if he gets up so 
early in the morning for the fishing, and if he passes 
a sleepless night he is so ill-tempered. And then 
he is so cross to poor mamma.” 

“Poor woman,” said Sylvia. 

“And is he cross to you also?” asked Eva. 

“Oh! yes, he is hard on me, too. He can not 
help it, I suppose. He was made that way. He is a 
hard man. And when he is at his worst ” 

“At his worst?” asked Miss Meredith. “What is 
that?” 

The child looked at the young woman. He 
twirled his cap in his fingers, and an embarrassed, 
almost melancholy smile crept over his face. 

“Oh, I mean when he has had a drop or so too 
much. Then ” 

“Well, what happens then?” said the marquis. 


l’americaine. 


185 


“Nothing, monsieur, only he is not always pleas- 
ant.” 

“Well, after that?” 

“Oh! dear, there are blows. They are thick as 
rain. He strikes if one speaks a word.” 

“He strikes your mamma, does he?” asked 
Sylvia. 

“Yes, but he hardly knows what he is doing when 
he is drinking. He is a little off” (and the child 
touched his forehead significantly). “Yes, he is a 
liftle off, not chic you know.” 

In this little word of slang, spoken in a low voice 
and with a solemn shake of the head, there was a 
volume of meaning, of childish tears repressed, 
and of long, -long hours of sadness. 

“You love your mother, do you not?” 

“Why of course,” said the boy. “It is mamma.” 

“And your father?” It was Georges who asked 
the question. 

“I love him,' too,” answered the child. 

“In spite of his — ” 

“ Dame\ He is my papa.” 

“What is your first name?” 

“Francis — Francis Joseph Ruand.” 

“How old are you?” 

The boy made a mental calculation: 


l’americaine. 


i 86 


“Let me see — twelve — thirteen. I was twelve 
years old last herring catch.” 

“Then you are about thirteen,” said Eva. 

“In that neighborhood,” said the child seriously. 

“And you want to be a sailor?” asked Sylvia, who 
spoke as familiarly with him as did the others. 

“Yes, I told the young lady and the gentleman just 
now that I would like to be a sailor, not a marine 
on board a war vessel, but a sailor in the coast 
trade.” 

“Why?” 

“On account of my parents.” 

“Your father?” asked Georges. 

“And my mother. I should like to live near them 
and to give them a part of my earnings. You know 
I earn a little now but I am ambitious.” 

“You are ambitious?” 

“Yes,” said the boy proudly, “I want to earn 
more than that.” 

“How much do you earn?” • 

“Sometimes as much as six sous a day.” 

“How much?” asked Sylvia, touched by the 
story of such poverty. 

“Six sous, sometimes, but seldom eight or ten.” 

“And your father, how much does he earn?” 

“Oh! he earns more, only as his boat has no 


l’americaine. 


187 


cover, a poor old boat, and as he has to buy bait — 
the fish are very particular and must have fresh bait 
— why there is not much profit at the end of the 
count.” 

“And yet your cousin Berniere, at baccarat in 
one night, lost — Oh, I wish M. de Berniere were 
here,” said Miss Meredith. 

“And you manage to live on these small earn- 
ings?” said Sylvia. 

“Oh, sometimes there is a windfall. When 
father catches a fine cod, or takes a turtle — then 
there is soup — on Sunday — ” 

“Soup is an event then,” said Georges. 

The child smiled. 

“Well, Francis,” said Mrs. Norton, “here is some- 
thing for you — for finding the bracelet, you know.” 

And she held out to the boy a piece of gold, 
which he took joyfully in his chubby, chapped 
hands, while his face suddenly became very red. 
For a moment he held it with an avaricious grasp, 
then handing it back tp Sylvia, he stammered: 

“Oh, madame. It is too much. It was no trouble 
to bring back the bracelet, I did not do it for pay.” 

“I know it well, my child. But I want your 
mother to be able to care for herself as she needs. 
It is for her.” 


i88 


l’americaine. 


“Thanks for mamma then,” said the little one. 

“And I want you to bring me news of her, you 
understand. Come back often, often, my child.” 

“With pleasure, madame. When I do not have 
to make bridges, or when the nets are drying; other- 
wise papa — ” and smiling he made the gesture of an 
uplifted arm in the act of striking. “ Good-bye, 
monsieur, madame and the company. And if you 
are not here when I come again to the villa, 
I will ask monsieur where you are,” he added, jerk- 
ing his thumb in the direction of Georges de Solis. 

“Why ask monsieur?” asked Eva, amused. 

Francis saw he had made some blunder, and said 
to Sylvia: 

“Is he not your husband?” 

“What an idea! ” said Eva. 

“Pardon — excuse me — I thought — ” An awk- 
ward silence suddenly filled the room. Eva and 
Sylvia looked at each other in evident embarrass- 
ment. The latter lowered her eyes in an almost 
painful confusion, while Francis Ruaud asked Miss 
Meredith: 

“How shall I go out of here? I do not know 
the way.” 

“I will show you,” said Eva. 

The boy, still saluting Mrs. Norton and the mar- 


l’americaine. 


189 


quis, went out with Miss Meredith, leaving M. . de 
Solis alone with Sylvia — alone in the room where 
the fisherman’s boy had touched without knowing 
it, unconscious of the martyrdom he was inflicting, 
the wound of those two beings condemned to suffer. 


CHAPTER VI. 


They were alone, face to face; alone, after years; 
alone, after the separation of their two existences, 
their double life having continued at the caprice of 
destiny, with oceans and space for a separating bar- 
rier. They were alone, and a painful timidity came 
over each of them, as if each were afraid of saying 
too much in the first word, about to be pronounced. 

Norton was in his office at Havre, sending his 
instructions to New York. But neither Sylvia nor 
M. de Solis thought of Norton. They were thinking 
only of their past, of that dear, nameless past, of 
what had been taken out of their destiny, of all that 
might have been, but was not, and never would be. 

At first, not a word was spoken by either. Then, 
after a moment of mute, sad contemplation, Georges 
broke the silence, saying: 

“You must confess that there are strange chances 
in life.” 

“Yes?” said Sylvia, interrogatively, as if she did 
not divine his allusion. 

“For example, that poor boy could not suspect 
what memories he would awaken by his awkward 
remark.” 


190 


m 



THEY WERE ALONE, FACE TO FACE. 


4 



I 


4 





















































V 
























































i 








































l’americaine. 


191 

“What memories?” She saw that Solis was on 
the point of speaking confidentially of the past, and 
she wished to avoid it. 

“What memories? Have you forgotten them?” 

“I do not say that,” replied Mrs. Norton, coldly, 
“but I know that it would be cruel to recall them. 
And what good will it do to speak of them?” 

“I ask pardon for making allusion to them. I 
may say, almost involuntarily, but that child- — ” 

Solis shook his head and continued: 

“There is nothing like innocent hands to make 
us suffer, without intending it.” 

Sylvia tried to smile. “Bah!” she said. “You are 
certainly not unaware that existence is a series more 
or less long, of sufferings more or less consoled.” 

He caught eagerly at the word: 

“Consoled? You have used a word almost as 
painful to me as the mistake of little Francis Ruaud.” 

“Painful? Why?” asked Sylvia. 

“Because I am not one of those who can be con- 
soled.” 

M. de Solis put such a painful accent of sincerity 
into his words that the honest woman responded 
sadly, but with a forced, and as it were, implacable 
tenderness, as if to make him understand that all was 
finished, past, fled: 


192 


l’americaine. 


“We must, however, dear marquis, take life as it 
is, neither as a farce nor yet as a tragedy — a little 
dull, a little gray, like the sea to-day, yet having this 
good quality in it, that each day it bears us nearer 
our destiny, as each wave yonder carries away some 
debris deposited upon the beach.” 

“Then,” said Solis, in a low tremulous tone, “all 
that has been in the past is gone, vanished forever?” 

“Why do you ask me that?” said Sylvia. “It is 
not well that you should seek to know what may 
have remained in a woman’s heart. I have never 
forgotten you. You know me well enough to under- 
stand that I am as faithful to an affection as to an 
oath. But in the presence of Richard Norton’s wife, 
you must forget that you once dreamed of giving 
her another name. Fate has willed it otherwise. 
My father advised — exacted — this marriage. He 
saw in it every promise of future happiness for me — 
a husband devoted, courageous and good; and you 
will agree,” added the young woman, “that my poor 
father might have made a worse choice.” 

“There is no man in the world whom I love more 
deeply than Richard Norton,” Solis answered. “But 
you will pardon, for the sake of my friendship, the 
questions, which now come to my lips every time I 
see you. Have the promises of happiness which 


l’americaine. 


193 


your father foresaw for you, been fulfilled? I repeat, 
madam, that it is one of the most faithful and respect- 
ful of your friends, who now speaks to you. I con- 
fess that I feel anxious and unhappy in seeing that 
you are sad. And in spite of what you have just 
said, each wave over yonder does not carry away all 
its debris. No, no. There will be left a remnant on 
the sand. There will remain something in our 
hearts.” 

“No one is to blame,” said Sylvia incisively. “If 
I am not well, I must look to Dr. Fargeas to cure me. 
The balance of the world have nothing to do with 
it.” 

“Then you are happy?” 

He regarded her a little anxiously, wishing for 
and at the same time dreading her answer. 

“I am happy, perfectly happy,” she said without 
any appearance of constraint, or of insincerity. 

The voice of Solis sounded hollow as he went on: 

“I am glad to have this assurance from yourself. 
It consoles me somewhat in my turn. I shall have 
more courage to be resigned — ” 

“ To be resigned?” 

“ Ah!” he said with sudden energy in which there 
was the slightest tinge of reproach. “ Every one can 
not so easily encounter that happiness of which you 

13 


194 


LAMERI CAINE.' 


speak. Others, to find the forgetfulness which 
awaits you at your fireside traverse the universe and 
wear away their lives to escape a memory which fol- 
lows them everywhere. They imagine that the be- 
ing, whose loss they regret, suffers the same pangs, 
and experiences the same agony as themselves, in 
the memory of vanished dreams. Ah! Yes! Chi- 
merical spirits! Hunters of romance! Simple hearts! 
And some fine day they again meet the being from 
whom they have madly fled, and dreading to find 
in the dear remembered one a sadness, a melancholy 
equal to their own, they encounter instead a grief 
which has been consoled, a resignation which has 
become a happiness. For those who have been 
faithful' to' the ideal of their past, but one thing 
remains to take up the line of interrupted travel, to 
go on forever, and at last to disappear. Perhaps 
they, too, may some time be able to throw off by the 
wayside the clinging burden of their first dream.” 

“To this sudden and bitter burst on the part of 
Solis, Sylvia, whose sad, sweet look enveloped him 
like a soft reproach, said: 

“ You told me a moment ago that you were my 
most devoted friend. Does a friend speak as you 
have done? With what, after all, shall I reproach 
myself? For having accepted life as it is? I do not 


l’americaine. 


195 


call that resignation, as you would haveit,1)ut duty. 
You are right, Georges,” (he trembled at hearing 
that name of former days), “the best thing you can 
do at present is to go away and leave me. in peace, 
in the sadness or joy of my new life. Every word 
that you might say to me would be painful, and in 
spite of what you may believe, the memory of our 
poor dreams of the past is so vivid in my thoughts 
that your presence revives regrets which I thought 
had been forever effaced.” 

“Regrets?” 

“You well know,” she said, affecting not to notice 
the note of hope in the exclamation of Solis, “that 
the least word between us is cruel. You said you 
would be willing to resume your life of travel. Be 
it so, and I will thank the fate which has permitted 
me to come to France to see you once more, to beg 
you to forget me, but this time once for all — once 
for all.” 

“To leave you again?” he cried. “Can I do it, 
Sylvia? To forget you? Never!” 

“Well, at least do not say so to me. It makes me 
think that you take pleasure in afflicting me. Keep 
from me the secret of your affection, as you have 
kept the affection itself, locked in your own^ heart. 
Allow me to believe that you can efface from your 


196 


l’americaine. 


heart that which is most deeply graven there. Make 
for yourself a new life, my friend, worthy of your- 
self, of your courage, of your talents. In a word, you, 
who reproached me with being happy, try to be 
happy yourself;” and she added, trying to smile, but 
not succeeding: 

“That is all; I wait to be consoled.” 

Solis could only reply by a cry, a despairing 
cry of love: 

“ Happiness ! There is no happiness, except 
with you.” 

“No,” said Sylvia, trembling violently. “I assure 
you, you will find it elsewhere. There must be some 
happiness remaining. I have dispensed so little.” 

The melancholy tone in which these last words 
were spoken made the young man’s nerves vibrate, 
and taking Sylvia’s hands, he said in a burst of 
devoted tenderness: 

“Ah! you really suffer!” 

“Selfish one,” she said, softly, “do you think that 
you alone have the right to suffer?” 

She had in her smiling resignation betrayed 
at last the real state of her heart. But by a sort of 
chance, or fear, she quickly recovered possession of 
herself, and withdrawing her hands from those 
of Solis, and in order to cut short these confidences 


l’americaine. 


197 


which were oppressive to her, and which were 
impelling her to the brink of memories which would 
be painful to her, she began to talk of other subjects 
— of the sea, of Mademoiselle Offenburger, of what- 
ever was commonplace, current gossip, the conver- 
sation of the neighborhood. But the thoughts of M. 
de Solis were elsewhere. He did not listen to what 
was said, answered mechanically, and yet he felt 
happy to be near her, wrapped as he was in the 
soothing torpor of his dream. 

They were in the midst of this futile conver- 
sation in which words were used to mask their real 
feelings, when they heard Norton’s step. 'They felt 
no sensation of fear or annoyance when Richard 
entered. On the contrary, his arrival delivered 
them from an embarrassment which was becoming 
agonizing. They had felt that through the empty 
sentences of their recent conversation there were 
rising to the surface passionate avowals, unspoken 
tendernesses, and neither he nor she wished to suc- 
cumb to them. Therefore, Norton’s coming was 
welcome to both. 

He seemed careworn, moreover, and Sylvia 
thought he looked very pale. A good-humored 
smile, however, illuminated his strong face when he 
held out his hand to his friend, and then he asked 


l’americaine. 


198 

Mrs. Norton iT she were not better, and if Dr. Far- 
geas were not satisfied with her progress. 

“I have not seen the doctor to-day.” 

“So much the better, my dear. That shows that 
he is not disturbed about your condition.” 

They talked for some moments longer on indiffer- 
ent subjects, Mr. Norton seeming, however, to be 
vaguely anxious about some mines, which he did 
not name. Then Sylvia asked of M. de Solis per- 
mission to retire. She was a little tired, she said, 
and then she would see the marquis again soon. In 
taking her leave there was in her manner a gracious- 
ness, a melancholy full of hidden meanings which 
Georges understood, and which, if expressed in 
words, would have said: 

“Yes, we loved each other once, but now be- 
hold the husband whom I must reverence and 
adore.” 

Solis understood all this perfectly. He watched 
her as she took her leave, with the impression that 
the tender words they had exchanged that morning 
could have no other effect than that of establishing 
the cruelty of this reality; all his dreams came 
brutally in contact with this solid fact and were 
shattered there. He seemed to have fallen from 
some dream-created height and found himself, on 


l’americaine. 


199 


awakening, before the husband, that living obstacle, 
that rival who was his fraternal friend. 

In spite of his own suffering, which gave him the 
egotistic right to think only of himself, Georges 
noticed a sort of nervousness and uneasiness on the 
part of Norton. Had some harassing complication 
arisen in America? Involved in so many diversed 
interests, Norton was like the general of an army, 
exercising a surveillance over troops engaged in 
many parts of the field at the same time. The Amer- 
ican must have been preoccupied by some material 
interest, but at the first question of the marquis, 
Richard responded quickly, that it was not business 
matters which concerned him at the moment. He 
had not the slightest concern in that direction. 

“What is it then?” asked Solis. 

‘-My dear friend,” said Norton, “it is absurd 
enough; and for a man of my physique, it may seem 
to you to be ridiculous, but the fact is, I am becoming 
nervous. I, also, am in the fashion. The great nervous 
disease you know. I suppose I am doomed to become 
one of Dr. Fargeas’ patients. Yes, I, the Yankee, 
the man of granite, the machine-man; I have nerves.” 

He laughed a harsh, unnatural laugh. “I do not 
sleep any more It is nonsensical, and in my sleep- 
less hours I imagine hosts of unpleasant things.” 


200 


l’americaine. 


“You have nothing to make you uneasy?” asked 
Georges. 

“I have said that my health is not good,” said 
Norton. “Since I came to France I have experi- 
enced a sort of crisis. I have said nothing of it to 
Mrs. Norton, because I did not want to alarm her, 
nor to give myself the appearance of a nervous 
schoolma’am, with my bulk of an American ox. But 
the fact remains the same. Have I worked too hard, 
over-excited my nerves? It may be so. What is 
certain is, that my insomnia is crushing me, to speak 
in the manner of Offenburger. At best I have only 
sleep interrupted with dreams. My brain is in a whirl 
and my thoughts gallop through space like Mazep- 
pa’s steed, while the body dozes. I have a ringing 
in my ears like that far-off sound of bells. In short, 
I am beginning to experience a marked feeling of 
lassitude. The loss of sleep irritates me, and it has 
taken a good deal of determination to enable me to 
deny myself the use of chloral which makes me 
sleep at night, but stupefies me the following day. 
To avoid this alternative I lie awake and think. The 
nights pass, but in these half-waking, half-sleeping 
watches, sad, absurd ideas weary my brain and take 
entire possession of me. I beg pardon for speaking 
of all this to you, my dear Georges, I who used to 


l’americaine. 


201 


preach to you to substitute action for day dreaming 
and laugh at the blue devils. I must unbosom 
myself. I must talk. I must throw to the winds of 
friendly confidence that which chokes, which stifles 
me. My body is here, but my thoughts are yonder 
in America. I work like a negro. The existence of 
all those workmen, miners, merchants, ship owners, 
railroad engineers and firemen is dependent upon 
mine. All this engrosses my attention. And yet I 
am afraid of one thing.” 

“What is that?” asked Solis. 

Norton paused. Then nervously, as if some in- 
terior impulse constrained him to avow what was 
really the great anxiety of his life, he said: 

“Well, I am afraid I have sacrificed my personal 
happiness to give bread and life to all these people.” 

“Your happiness?” ^ 

It was the same word, pronounced but a few mo- 
ments before by the wife, which was now heard 
from the lips of the husband. Happiness! Eternal 
word of humanity, constantly enamored of this 
dream; the cry of agony of all mankind, the de- 
spairing call toward the promised land, the realm 
of the unseen. Happiness! 

“Yes,” said Norton, “I am not happy, and all 
because Sylvia is unhappy.” 


202 


l’americaine. 


At the name of the young wife nervously pro- 
nounced by the husband, Solis felt a sudden, pain- 
ful contraction of the throat. He would have the 
conversation stop there, for he began to be embar- 
rassed by the too intimate avowals of his friend. 
There was about this interview, which had been, as 
it were, forced upon him, something of the solemn 
and unexpected, and it troubled and irritated the 
young man. 

“Why should not Mrs. Norton be happy?” he 
said in a tone of studied calmness, for he wished to 
cut short a silence which was becoming painful. 
Norton was in a reverie and was regarding, but 
without seeing them, the sea and the distant horizon. 
“She has everything to make her perfectly happy. 
What you fear must be in your imagination. You 
love her, do you not?” 

“With all my heart.” 

“And she loves you?” Georges went on in a 
lower voice. 

Norton did not at once answer, but began to 
pace up and down the apartment, his vacant stare 
mechanically fixed upon the carpet. 

“My dear friend,” he said suddenly, breaking the 
silence, “you never know whether a woman loves you 
or not — or rather you can tell, if you are neither a 


l’americaine. 


203 


fool nor a fop, that she no longer loves you, or will 
no longer love you, even though she thinks, perhaps, 
in_ good faith that she still loves you. You remem- 
ber Miss Harley? You do not think Sylvia has 
changed?” he asked, with a sad attempt at a smile. 

“No, I think Mrs. Norton is the same. She is 
unchanged.” 

“Well, she is not only ill, but unhappy. I am 
certain of it.” 

“She expected of life a happiness, which it has not 
brought her. And then the man she married was an 
entirely different being from the person I have 
become. It is in vain that I have given myself to 
her. I owe myself also to those who depend upon 
me in America. She loved me, but she loves me no 
longer.” 

He did not realize what torture he was inflicting 
upon Georges. It seemed to Norton that there was 
a certain satisfaction in unbosoming himself, in ex- 
posing his wound and in probing it to the bottom. 
He had that satisfaction which sick persons have, 
who aggrevate their sufferings by dwelling upon 
them with a morbid sort of pleasure. 

Besides, in whom should he confide, if not in that 
friend, younger than himself, but of whose loyal 
affection he was sure. And then he did not reason. 


204 


l’americaine. 


He did not calculate. Nervously he allowed him- 
self to be impelled to these confidences. He emptied 
his heart of all its secrets with a bitterness which re- * 
lieved and consoled him. 

No, Sylvia no longer loved him. He was cer- 
tain of that. The vague melancholy, the medita- 
tions of the young woman, her nervousness which 
resisted even the skill of Dr. Fargeas, left him in no 
doubt. He had condemned her to a life which lay 
heavily upon her shoulders. 

“Whatever I may do, one day of our existence 
resembles all other days. It is the monotony of 
labor. I give you my word, there are times when I 
feel that I would willingly throw off the burden of 
all this business, and I am egotist enough to say, I 
would try to live only for her and myself.” 

“Well,” said Solis firmly , “why do you not do it?” 

“Why?” Norton shrugged his shoulders. “Ask 
my miners, my laborers, the people on my ranches, 
if they do not need me as badly as I need them.” 

“No doubt of it at all; but the mines once sold, a 
new director would provide for the miners as well as 
you have done.” 

There is some question of that. I have buried 
enormous sums of money in their development, which 
is a difficult thing. A newcomer might proceed to 


l’americaine. 


205 


put on foot some economic reforms, and in that case 
there would be more than one family among my 
good workmen who would have no soup for the 
evening meal.” 

“Then you are remaining in a business you do 
not like, for philanthropy’s sake?” 

“Out of a sense of duty. I feel that a great bunch 
of humanity is hanging to me, as to a parent stem. 
This sensation gives me pleasure.” 

And with uplifted head, the American drew him- 
self up proudly, as if he felt the lines by which he 
was attached to these thousands and thousands of 
people whose source of life he was. 

“I have a pride in being the distributer of bread 
to such a mass of people. It is not an embarrassment. 
I have found people here who are quite ready to 
divide my mission and share my responsibility.” 

“Offenburger?” asked M. de Solis. 

“Offenburger, precisely.” 

“I would have laid a wager that it was he. The 
banker must needs get scent, not of the philanthropy, 
but of the gold there is in any undertaking, before 
he puts a finger in if. He is a sly rogue.” 

“But a good man at bottom. Infatuated with the 
passion of money getting, a little puffed up with his 
own vanity, but not bad. He thinks you are very 


206 


L AMERICAINE. 


estimable, I may say by way of parenthesis. By the 
way, if you would like to marry, there is a chance. 
Helene is pretty enough, I think — ” 

“She is very pretty, but she has too great faults. 
She is too rich — ” 

“That is a fault which can be condoned.” 

“And too learned.” 

“She belongs to her epoch.” 

“Then I should have liked better to have lived 
in the time of her mother, who must have been very 
pretty, if the daughter is like her. What a queer 
thing affiliation is! The father, Offenburger, is a 
Hamburger and a Jew; the mother was an English 
Protestant. What is she, the young lady, Helene?” 
, “A Catholic.” 

“Exactly! The hotch-potch of actual society.” 

He was still endeavoring to smile, feeling a 
strong desire nevertheless to fly, not knowing how 
to ward off the heart-breaking confidences of this 
husband whose affection went out to him naturally. 
He forced himself to inject into the conversation 
ironical pleasantries which, however, came only 
from the lips and not from the heart. He felt 
strangely troubled when Norton suddenly, and as if 
moved by some instinctive impulse seized his hand 
and said in a hard, dry voice: 


L AMERICAINE. 


207 


“In fact you are right. Do not marry. There 
are too many sorrows in this voyage made by two 
people, where one leaves the other en route. When 
one feels that he is loved with a true love, nothing 
can equal the suffering of that one of them who at 
a given moment divines that he is no longer loved, 
that all is finished for him, that the thought of the 
beloved one wanders elsewhere, that the adored 
one loves another. Well, my dear, I am in that 
situation. You see what is in my heart. And that 
is why I cry out in my anguish, that is why I am 
ready to break my head against the wall.” 

Solis felt the burning pressure of the fingers of 
this man, who seemed shaken with a nervous fever. 
He also had felt a shock like the sudden benumbing 
effect of an electric current, when Norton, beside 
himself in the madness of his suffering, had uttered 
this confidence, hot as a spurt of life blood: 

“Another! when the adored one loves another!” 

It was as if a flash of lightning had zig-zagged 
before his eyes, and his startled exclamations, while 
intended for consolation, were a lie both to Norton 
and himself. 

“Oh, no! What you are saying is merest folly. 
Mrs. Norton loves no one but you.” 

In hearing the sound of his own voice, he had 


208 


l’americaine. 


experienced a sensation which he was unable to 
analyze, even in his trouble. It seemed that he 
had answered too hastily, eagerly even, and that in 
speaking his voice trembled as if the lie were visible. 
He loved her. He loved that Sylvia whose lost love 
Norton regretted. And would not his startled cry 
of attempted consolation betray this love? 

“I do not say that Mrs. Norton is not one of the 
most honest women in the world,” answered the 
husband, with his bitter appetite for confidences. 
“I say that she is escaping from me, who am the 
reality in her life, into an existence of dreams, of 
reveries, of romance. The ‘other’ of whom I speak 
I do not mean to say has even an existence; but 
what I do know, what I feel, and what tortures me 
is, that I am no longer alone in Sylvia’s thoughts; 
that her life has resolved itself into a disappoint- 
ment; that I who adore her so much, that it is a joy 
to me even to talk about her to you, I am unhappy 
enough to cry out in my agony and she to weep in 
silence. And this is life, my friend. And there 
are people who will commit cowardly and dishonor- 
able deeds to preserve it.” 

Solis was frightened at this state of mind, at this 
suffering of his friend, who, with a singular acute- 
ness of perception, was reading his wife’s heart as if 


L AMERICAINE. 


209 


it had been an open book, and who was speaking of 
that “other” whom his wife might love — of whom? 
of the other, of him, of Solis, of him who was loved 
by Sylvia yesterday and who, to-morrow, would rob 
Richard of her love. ' 

He experienced a feeling of extreme embarrass- 
ment. He would have been glad to stop Norton in 
his confessions, and yet he could not help feeling a 
sentiment of triumph in hearing him speak in this 
manner of Sylvia. He saw her in his imagination 
while her husband was speaking, with her sad and 
gentle air, and he could fancy he heard her avow 
her love for himself. This thought gave him a 
shiver, almost of terror. He asked himself if, by 
any possibility, Norton, who, however, could not 
have suspected anything, might not wish to pene- 
trate his secret in avowing his own. But Norton 
was incapable of such Machiavelism. It was the 
inner suffering jof the man which alone impelled him 
to lay open his heart, as if, by unsealing the springs 
of his bitterness, all his sorrows might escape through 
the fissure. 

Georges took thfe wise course of concealing his 
emotion and again tried, laughingly, to reassure 
Norton. There was no cause for alarm! Richard 
was exaggerating! His condition of mind pointed 

14 


210 


l’americaine. 


out phantoms where none existed! How was it 
possible for Mrs. Norton not to be happy in the life 
he had prepared for her, and loved as she must know 
herself to be loved by him. 

“Do you care to have me tell you the plain 
truth ?” asked Solis. “Well, then, you are unjust to 
your fate. You are complaining because you are too 
happy.” 

“I know what I am saying. But after all, what? 
We must accept things as they are. I ask pardon, 
however, for having annoyed you with what you 
call my phantoms.” 

“No, not annoyed,” said Georges, “but sad- 
dened.” 

“It is about the same thing. Therefore, I hope 
you will excuse me, my dear friend. I now have 
my correspondence to attend to. Some letters to 
write, as they always say in your comedies. Forget 
my verbosity. Ordinarily, I am not so talkative. 
But to-day I was betrayed into it. I repeat, pardon 
me. It is always wrong to talk too much.” 

“Even to a friend?” said M. de Solis, in a con- 
strained tone. 

“Oh, my dear, when we confide to a friend who 
does not love us we annoy him, but if to a friend 
who loves us, then we sadden him. Good-bye until 


l’americaine. 


21 1 


to-morrow;” and he extended his hand, which, 
strange to say, his friend the marquis hesitated to 
grasp. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Georges de Solis returned to his apartments and 
passed a feverish night. He debated with himself 
what course he should now pursue. Eager to de- 
part on new voyages in search of the river of for- 
getfulness, he found himself between these two 
beings, one of whom — that one whom he loved as a 
brother — had just shown him a deep and poignant 
grief like a concealed wound. And by the untoward- 
ness of fate, it was he who had caused all this grief, 
of which indeed he was suffering his share. What 
ought he to do? Ah! if it were not that the dear 
woman, who lived only by his life, was there near 
him, he would have resumed his existence full of 
hazard, of adventure, shaking off his sorrows in the 
jolting of the road, as one might scatter a bag of 
sharp-cornered stones to be worn smooth by usage. 
To go away! It was the only clearly defined thought 
which came to his mind, whether he lay stretched 
upon his bed, or rose to look out the windows at 
the sea, swelling in the distance under the bright 
moon. 

Yes, to go away! That is what wisdom dictated, 
212 


l’americaine. 


213 


even in the disarranged state in which his reason 
was. The vast world still held solitudes for souls 
hungry for forgetfulness, like himself, or infatuated 
with the need of action like the pioneers of the un- 
known. But to go away when he knew that he was 
loved, was that wisdom or cowardice? For truly 
yes, she loved him. He had felt it, read it clearly 
in her looks. He had divined it, understood it. 
And was it just, when he had found Sylvia again, 
that he should take to flight as in the past when he 
thought he had lost her? 

It was not Sylvia from whom he was flying, it 
was Norton’s wife. His hand had, in turn, but a 
few minutes before felt in the hand clasp of the 
wife a tremulous timidity, while there was in that of 
the husband a sure and firm loyality. Yes, it were 
better to depart again on his travels, not at hazard, 
but toward some useful goal and dower the world 
with a new realm now unknown, or else leave his 
bones by the way in some remote corner of Africa. 
But just when his feverish excitement was about to 
change into resolution, an image seemed to arise 
between him and that vague goal toward which he 
wished to direct his course. The calm, smiling face, 
with melancholy eyes, beaming under hair begin- 
ning to turn gray, the face of the Marchioness de 


214 


l’americaine. 


Solis. His mother! Should he again leave her 
alone, taking the risk, when he should return, if 
indeed he ever should return, of never seeing the 
dear one again? Ought this dear, innocent mother 
to support in this manner the counter-blow of her 
son’s disappointments and sufferings? 

The poor mother! 

“No,” he said, “I must not leave her I adore, 
now that the days are counted during which I may 
yet possess, cherish and love her.” 

He would remain, then; he would no longer be 
the wanderer he had been; he would stay beside her, 
whom the science of Dr. Fargeas had restored. It 
was upon this determination that he slept a little, 
toward dawn, as if the coming day had brought a 
languor to his eyes; tired and burning from insomnia. 

On coming down to the dining-room at the 
breakfast hour, he was happy to find the marchion- 
ess. He kissed her as of old, in the neck, as he did 
when, a little child, he used to nestle beside her, 
then they sat down to the table. During the meal, 
Georges tried to give a tone of gaiety to all he said, 
which, however, seemed to the marchioness to be a 
little forced. 

“Do you not think,” she said, at the end of the 
meal, “ that this crystal sounds a little false?” She 


l’americaine. 


215 


smiled lightly as she spoke, and tapped, with the 
point of her knife, a glass, which returned a dull 
sound. 

“Yes,” added the mother, “the particles of glass 
no longer vibrate. It must be broken. Do you 
know this glass makes me think of your gayety of 
this morning?” 

Georges did not answer. 

“I did not have you with me yesterday, my dear 
child. Oh, I can understand how the time may not 
appear so long with Madame Norton, as with me. 
A mother is a mother in vain; she is none the less 
an old woman. And your American acquaintance 
has the gift of absorbing your mind.” 

“I swear to you — ” interrupted M. de Solis. 

“Do not swear. I can see without my spec- 
tacles.” 

The breakfast was over. The marchioness rose 
smiling and said: 

“Do you want my opinion, my poor Georges? It 
is folly or madness.” 

“It is not a madness.” 

“Where will it lead you?” said the mother, sud- 
denly. 

The marquis answered: “Nowhere — or very 
far. Once, last night, I determined to go away 


216 


l’americaine. 


again, and if it had not been for you, my dear 
mother ” 

Madame de Solis nodded: 

“You would have again started for Tonquin or 
Congo. And who would have paid the expenses of 
the adventure? Your poor mother, who is so glad 
to have you for a little while, if even by chance, and 
who would see you start away again; why? Because 
forsooth, you have found in France a New York 
sweetheart! It is absurd. It is absurd and wicked,” 
she said, while Georges seated himself before her 
in a low chair, and softly took in his own. her 
hands and kissed them, those dear mother’s hands, 
with the swollen blue veins. 

She gently withdrew them, caressing her boy’s 
head as she used to do in his infancy, and with a 
tone as soft and soothing as her ancient cradle song 
she tried to allay his present suffering as she for- 
merly did the fevers of his babyhood. 

“You see, my child, if you wish to go away you 
need not go so far. Instead of imitating Stanley or 
M. de Brazza, if you will take my advice, go to Solis, 
and immure yourself there with me. You will see 
again the rows of ancient lindens where you used to 
run and play when you were a child. It is not a 
Louvre, our old Solis, but it is full of happy mem- 


l’americaine. 


217 


ories. We will make our wine as of old, provided 
the vines bear any grapes, and you will find some 
gentle little woman of the country, if Paris has not 
attracted them all to the Allee des Poteaux like so 
many butterflies.” 

“My mother,” said the marquis, in a tone whose 
tenderness was itself a reproach. 

“Oh! You are ready for a revolt. I have taken 
it into my head that you must marry. Yes, that is 
the end toward which all my plans tend. I was just 
now speaking to Mr. Norton about it.” 

“Norton?” 

“We are friends also, since his visit yesterday. I 
am much pleased with this hewer of oaks, this man- 
ager of men. I left him on the beach. You know I 
am very early. I was coming from mass when I met 
him going to the telegraph office. He looked 
greatly worried. He expects some dispatch, I do 
not know what.” 

“And you spoke of me?” asked Georges. 

“Yes, of you.” 

“Norton has enough to attend to in his own affairs, 
without interfering in those of others, especially 
when they are unimportant.” 

“How unimportant? Your possible marriage un- 
important?” said the marchioness. “For you, per- 


218 


l’americaine. 


haps; but for me, it is another matter. You have 
never thought what a joy it would be to me, before I 
disappear from the scene forever, to know that you 
were happy, that you were tired of traveling all over 
the world and were ready to rest a little.” 

“At Solis?” 

“Or elsewhere. Ask Mrs. Norton herself if this 
is not the denouement which her reason and friend- 
ship dictate. I may be a selfish old body, but what 
can you expect of me? I am tired of living alone in 
lodgings and having no news of you except by let- 
ters, dated I know not how many thousand leagues 
away, or by a dispatch by the Havas Agency. If I 
had known you would leave me all alone in Paris, I 
would have re-married. I am a great talker and I 
would have had some one to listen to me, at least. 
Come, my dear child, if you need to be consoled, if 
you have a sorrow, some little concealed wound — 
and I have noticed the crack in the glass, as you 
know — why go to Kamschatka to seek what you 
will as readily find at your hearthstone at Solis?” 

“Perhaps I do not want to find that sort of con- 
solation, my dear mother.” 

The sad smile which accompanied these words 
gave to the marchioness the impression that her 
son’s state of mind was graver than she had supposed. 


L AMERICAINE. 


219 


She felt a new anxiety which abated a little when 
Georges resumed the conversation by saying, that 
whether he were consoled or not, he would remain 
with her at Trouville, if she wished to finish the sea- 
son there, or at Solis if she wanted to leave for home 
at once. 

“After all,” thought the marchioness, “ this pas- 
sion for the American woman may be only a fire of 
straw,” and in their intimate life at the chateau de 
Solis, she certainly would, in time, get the better of 
her son’s melancholy. 

Nor would she wait very long to make an attempt 
to cut short this dangerous romance, and knowing 
Mrs. Norton to be an honest woman, the marchion- 
ess resolved to make her appeal to Sylvia herself. 

That very evening, under pretext of asking Mr. 
Norton about the dispatch which had given him so 
much anxiety, she asked Georges to accompany her 
to the villa. And after this first visit, others suc- 
ceeded, bringing about an almost daily intimacy in 
this seaside life, in spite of the aroused uneasiness of 
the mother and the expressed desire of the son to 
again take his flight for unknown regions. Norton 
was constantly unbosoming himself, speaking of the 
world of business which he was managing and plan- 
ning at a distance, and which he held firmly in hand 


220 


l’americaine. 


at the end of the transatlantic cable, anxious about 
what was taking place in Norton City, pre-occupied 
with his wells of natural gas at Pittsburg, with his 
mines at St. John, with his offices at New York, the 
Empire City as he called it, moving a world across 
the Atlantic and yet really thinking about nothing 
except the health of that woman for whom this king 
of iron, of oil and of coal had come to beg the inter- 
vention of the science of Dr. Fargeas. 

They saw each other often, he and Georges, and 
one day the marquis found him anxiously waiting 
for some dispatch of importance and gravity. That 
same evening, accompanied by his mother, Solis 
went to the villa. 

Norton and Sylvia were in the parlor overlook- 
ing the sea. 

“Well,” asked the marquis, “how about the 
dispatch?” 

“Nothing yet,” he answered. “I asked Mont- 
gomery to telegraph again, twice, three times.” 

He seemed troubled. 

“It is something which annoys you particularly?” 
asked Georges, who seemed to shun Sylvia, whose 
manner was cold. She was examining, while talking 
with the marchioness, the pictures in an American 


review. 


l’americaine. 


221 


“Yes,” said Norton, “I am surprised that 
Spaulding has given me no news of the St. John 
mines. But I assure you, my dear Sylvia,” said 
he turning toward his wife, “that it is not my 
American interests which give me the most anxiety 
to-day ” 

“What is it then?” asked she, laying the Harper’s 
Magazine upon a small table. 

“You.” 

“I?” 

“Yes, you are more and more thoughtful, more 
and more suffering. I am afraid that all Dr. Fargeas’ 
science ” 

Georges felt a sort of agony take possession 
of him. Norton, who had confided all his griefs to 
him in private, had never before spoken publicly of 
his anxieties. The marquis wanted to turn the con- 
versation, which might be painful to Sylvia, into 
another channel, but he dared not. 

Madame de Solis, as if she divined everything, 
responded quickly, addressing Norton: 

“ We do not cure in a day maladies which date 
from some period long in the past, but everything 
comes to him who can wait. I am persuaded 
that Mrs. Norton will return to New York com- 
pletely cured, cured and happy. I have no need of 


222 


l’americaine. 


Dr. Fargeas’ skill to predict that. I am a woman 
and that is enough.” 

“I hope that what you say may be true, mar- 
chioness,” said Norton, “for my dear Sylvia’s health 
makes every hour of my life anxious.” 

“My dear!” said Sylvia, softly, looking fondly at 
her husband, for she felt that she dared not look at 
M. de Solis. 

“ I say what I think,” continued Norton, “ and I 
have the right to say it publicly before the friend I 
love best in the world, have I not, Georges?” 

He had turned and now faced the marquis, who, 
a little pale, was standing by his mother’s chair. 

“And, by the way,” added Norton, “I have some- 
thing to say to you.” 

“To me?” asked Solis. 

“To you.” 

“Something important?” 

“Important enough, and very private.” 

“That means that I am one too many in this con- 
versation,” said the marchioness “Oh! the poor 
women. Here is a mother whose son says, ‘I am 
going away,’ and a wife whose husband says, ‘Leave 
me, please.’ It is our fate to be suppressed, 
Nothing serious ever concerns us. Come, Mrs. Nor- 
ton, if my company does not frighten you, let us 


l’americaine. 


223 


take a turn on the beach. Since they send us about 
our business, let us be gracious and obey.” 

“With pleasure,” said Sylvia. 

However, Mrs. Norton hesitated about going, for 
she was vaguely troubled about this interview which 
Norton had demanded. 

She went out without looking at M. de Solis, who 
bowed profoundly as she passed him. 

As soon as he was alone with Norton, Georges, 
without waiting for Norton to speak, said earnestly: 

“You are decidedly troubled about that des- 
patch!” 

But Richard interrupted him with a quick 
gesture. 

“The despatch! I have not thought about it. I 
want to talk to you; yes, about yourself, about your 
future. I want to resume our private conversation 
at the precise point where we left off the day of our 
first interview after your return. Do you not re- 
member it?” 

“No,” answered Georges, who now foresaw a 
conversation which might be full of peril, and who 
wished to study the game of his adversary. 

“Well, I remember it perfectly. I will tell you 
what it was, and where we left off,” said Norton. 

Then, putting his hand to his forehead: 


224 


l’americaine. 


“How hot it is! Do you not find it so?” 

“It is, indeed.” 

Norton stepped to a table, and taking a bottle of 
seltzer poured a portion of its contents into a glass of 
sherry, which he rapidly drank, with lips as dry as 
if parched by a fever. 

Then, making Georges sit down before him, near 
the window, he began, coldly, like a man of business 
discussing a matter of business: 

“You were saying to me that, having arrived at 
a decisive period in your life, where you thought of 
marrying, you were restrained by some memory 
which had remained, clinging in your heart. Do 
you recall this confidence?” 

“Perfectly,” said Solis. 

“I have often recurred to that conversation. 
You told me the story of the romance at the time, 
vaguely, but, if I remember, it was so distant, so 
nearly forgotten, so lost, I may say, in the mists of 
the past, as to make it possible for you to dispose of 
your heart and existence freely. That is what I 
understood at the time.” 

“That is about it,” said the marquis. 

“Well, about or exactly,” said Norton a little 
brusquely. “When it is a question of the past, a 
shade, more or less, is of no importance. There is 


L AMERICAINE. 


225 


no middle term between life and death. You 
wanted to marry. Therefore the past was buried for 
good and all. You are right. I have often since 
thought of what you then said to me. I love you 
well enough to wish to second your projects. You 
are looking for a bride. Well, I have found one for 
you.” 

“You?” said Georges staring at him. 

Crossing his legs and playing with an unlighted 
cigar, the American, with an unsuccessful attempt at 
a smile, went on in a clear tone: 

“Oh! it is not Mademoiselle Offenburger. No. 
It is a charming young girl. Very good. She is 
entirely ready to devote herself to him who shall 
love her. A little heart of gold, and with that heart 
a dowry of three millions.” 

“Norton!” exclaimed Solis, knitting his brows. 

“Maybe that is too little,” said the American 
smiling, as if he misunderstood the meaning of the 
marquis. “But she may consider as her own a part 
of what I possess. It is Eva, my niece Eva.” 

“Miss Eva?” 

“She is pretty enough, I should think. She is 
intelligent to her finger-tips, and she has sufficiently 
good taste to pardon many faults in Paris in favor of 
that Parisian who pleases her.” 

15 


226 


l’americaine. 


“She has told you ” 

“She has told me nothing. But, though I am a 
sort of delver, absorbed in preoccupations which 
ought, you would think, to keep all my attention 
riveted upon the transatlantic cable, I see very well. 
I divine clearly what is passing, and what people are 
thinking about around me. Eva is an exquisite 
being whom I adore; you are a devoted friend 
whom I esteem, and, in uniting you, I am persuaded 
that I should bring about a happy marriage — if there 
are any such.” 

“Miss Eva is indeed adorable. She is an ex- 
quisite girl as you say, certainly — but — ” 

Richard was awaiting the response of Solis. And 
Georges, embarrassed, feeling that Norton had some 
design in all this talk which did not appear on the 
surface— not a trap but a test — Georges hesitated, 
seeking some reason for a refusal. 

“Well,” said Norton at last, “you are not going 
to refuse my niece? You would indeed be hard to 
suit, for you will not find her equal. Are not three 
millions a sufficient dowry ? It is very simple. She 
shall have six!” 

The marquis expostulated, finding perhaps in 
this offer of a dowry, the looked-for pretext. 


l’americaine. 


227 


“You do not think, Norton, that such a ques- 
tion—” 

Richard quickly interrupted him: 

“I know, I know. I only speak of it to prove 
how much I love my dear sister’s child. She has 
grown up by my side. She has known me when 1 
was poor. It is just that I should divide with her 
now that I am rich.” 

“Miss Eva will not want for suitors. And I hope 
she will find a man worthy of her.” 

Norton had risen. 

“There is no need to hope for such a suitor. 
Behold that man. It is yourself,” he said, slapping 
Solis on the shoulder. 

“It is impossible,” said the marquis. 

“Why?” 

“Because I have reflected. Because the notions 
of marriage of which I spoke to you have given 
place to other ideas.” 

“Then you do not want to marry?” 

“No.” 

“Your determination to lead a bachelor life has 
developed very suddenly,” said Norton in a mocking 
tone. 

“Besides, and it is very natural, if I were to marry 
a woman it would be because I loved her.” 


228 


L AMERICAINE. 


“Eva, who is disposed to like you, would soon 
cause you to adore her,” answered Norton. “But 
in truth, my dear, in speaking to you to-day, as 1 
have spoken, 1 only place within reach of your 
decision that future of which you were thinking 
when you confided to me your intention to marry. 
I can still hear you say: ‘ When one has not married the 
woman he loves he might as well leave to cha?ice the care 
of making himself love the person whom he shall marry! 
Is that not still your opinion?” 

Georges felt that in becoming so pressing in his 
recommendations, in pushing him thus into his 
inner intrenchments, Norton had an object. It was 
a sort of moral duel, in which the husband sought 
to make the friend uncover himself. And Solis, 
master of himself, played a close game, pretending 
not to understand. 

“No,” he said, “I am no longer of that opinion. I 
have reflected, as I said just now, and I wish to re- 
main free.” 

“Free!” said Norton. “An honest man who 
marries an honest woman doubles his liberty by a 
devotion, and this it is which teaches him that there 
is no liberty without duty. This marriage — it is an 
idea which has come to me suddenly, as all my 
happy thoughts come — by inspiration. Yes, I 


l’americaine. 


229 


tell you this marriage would assure Eva’s hap- 
piness and yours. I have reflected over it. I wish 
it.” He accented the words, I wish it. “Zounds! 
man, you ought to marry.” 

“Why?” said Georges. 

Norton’s manner became more animated. “Ah! 
why? All the reasons you have given me for not 
marrying are not the true ones. You tell me you 
will not marry Eva, because she is an American. 
Madame de Solis, who is full of French prejudices 
against the Americans, told me but a little time ago 
that for her Eva was an ideal young woman.” 

“Did my mother know that you intended to 
speak to me about Miss Eva?” 

“No, on my word; and if I mention the mar- 
chioness to you it is because I am certain that she 
will be happy to keep you with her, married, housed 
and settled.” 

“If you had said to my mother that Miss Mere- 
dith counts her fortune by millions, she would have 
answered you that heiresses of this description are 
not suitable matches for noblemen who have no 
other fortune than their name.” 

Richard laughed nervously. 

“Their name, their blason, their honor. Are you 
going to cast in my teeth the millions we have 


230 


l’americaine. 


gained loyally, as you did your titles formerly? 
Sweat is equal to blood, my dear. And then I am 
not like so many parvenu fools, vain of my wealth. 
Don’t try at least to make me regret my riches. If 
I think of you for Eva it is because I wish that my 
child may be at once happy and honored, and be- 
cause, I repeat, I love you as I esteem you.” 

“You are generosity itself, my dear Norton, but I 
have said and I say again, I do not want to marry.” 

“You do not want to marry?” 

“No.” 

“Is it because you prefer to reserve your liberty ?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Georges, a little 
haughtily. 

“Would it not be, rather,” said Norton, planting 
himself before M. de Solis, “because you are, in 
reality, no longer free?” 

“I do not understand,” said the marquis coldly. 

“That old love of yours. That passion you left, 
I don’t know where — in America, who knows — 
have you really forgotten it? Ah! you have almost 
told me that story, my dear marquis. It was not 
necessary for you to tell me anything if you did not 
wish to see me one day or other meddle in your 
life.” 

Georges smiled, “My life,” he said, “has nothing 


l’americaine. 


231 


of mystery in it. You are at liberty to ask me any 
questions you please about it.” 

“Well, then, if to explain to myself, why you refuse 
the match I offer you, I should ask you if you still 
love the woman you have loved, and whether this 
woman is still alive and where she now is, would 
you answer me frankly and without hesitation?” 

“I would respond frankly, loyally, if I were not, 
in so doing, betraying the secret of another.” 

Norton nervously shrugged his shoulders, as if to 
compel himself to be calm, put his hands into his 
pockets and began to walk up and down with long 
strides, turning nowand then to look at M. de Solis, 
who stood impassively watching him. The Ameri- 
can, who was accustomed to handling men and iron, 
became for the moment almost brutal in his im- 
patience, and with his breath coming and going like 
the puffing of a locomotive, he continued: 

“Yes, I understand, another. That is the word. 
And now your refusal to answer me is explained. How 
could you marry Eva if you love some one else ? Can 
a man of honor give his hand to a woman when he 
has given his heart to another? The other! There 
is the obstacle. And this other is before you to- 
day, as she was yesterday, as she will be, forever, 
eternally. You are thinking of her now. You think 


232 


l’americaine. 


about nothing but her. You wanted to marry, you 
told me a few days ago, to forget the other! Can 
one forget? And how could you forget her when 
you have seen her again? For you have seen her; 
I am certain of it. She is in France! Evidently, in 
France. Who knows? Perhaps at Trouville?” 

“If she were here, as you say, there would be the 
more merit in my leaving, since I should fly from 
her presence, and I am going away to Solis for- 
ever,” said Solis softly. 

“You! going away?” 

“And why do you wish me to marry Miss Eva? 
She is too young, too eager for life to be made to 
accept either of the two existences which now claim 
me; that of a man tired of illusions, crouching in 
the chimney corner of his Chateau des Landes, or 
that of the baggage of an eccentric man of science, 
to-day in Trouville, to-morrow in Timbuctoo, if 
Solis turned out to be too dull.” 

Norton gazed steadily into the calm eyes of the 
marquis, as if he would surprise his inmost thought. 

“Then that is the only reason you can give for 
your refusal.” 

“That is the only reason,” said Georges. 

The American was not convinced. He thought 
he now understood the reason for the marquis’ ex- 


l’americaine. 


233 


treme reticence. He said to himself that if M. de 
Solis talked of again setting forth on his travels, it 
was because he could not trust himself to remain. 
A flight was often an avowal. 

Norton was about to push the conversation 
further when a noise of voices was heard in the 
direction of the door. A servant announced “Mon- 
sieur Montgomery,” and out of breath, and very 
red in the face, Mr. Montgomery entered, holding 
a dispatch in his hand, and said to his associate with 
a shake of the head: 

“Ah! Norton, my dear Norton.” 

“Well,” said Richard coldly. Montgomery held 
out to him the blue envelope, still sealed. 

“The dispatch — bad news.” 

“You know its contents?” 

“Yes, they addressed me in a duplicate dispatch. 
I ha,ve read my dispatch.” 

“But what is it then?” asked Georges. 

“The St. John mines, near Norton City,” began 
Montgomery. 

Norton had slowly broken the seal which 
fastened the blue paper containing two printed lines, 
and completed Montgomery’s phrase: 

“Inundated.” 

Then re-reading the dispatch, its dramatic brevity 


234 


L AMERICAINE. 


big with consequences and perils, he repeated its 
contents aloud. 

“Prompt measures to be taken. Come.” The 
American folded the dispatch gently, like* a general 
receiving the order to charge, and with his eye fixed 
upon an invisible point, as it were, on the other side 
of the Atlantic, he said: 

“Inundated! The mines! It may be a disaster! 
My fortune and Eva’s!” 

And, smiling in a strange manner, he turned to 
Georges, saying: 

“God forbid that I may have to return with the 
news that Eva has nothing and that her millions will 
no longer embarrass disdainful noblemen of France.” 

And not able to restrain a movement of im- 
patience against the unexpected news which had 
spoiled his plans, by throwing an unforeseen obstacle 
in his path, he exclaimed: 

“Thunder! St. John under water!” 

“Well?” asked Montgomery; and this word 
brought Norton back to the reality of the situation, 
to the necessity of taking some immediate step. 

“Well!” and Norton looked at his watch. 

“The steamer which sails from Southampton has 
gone. But to-morrow — Do you go to the tele- 
graph station, Montgomery.” 


l’americaine. 


235 


“To the telegraph station?” inquired Georges. 
“Yes; tell them to expect me in New York by the 
next transatlantic steamer.” 

“You are going then?” 

“Necessarily; I want to see for myself.” 

“Are you goingalone?” asked Montgomery. 

“I do not know yet. That depends upon Mrs. 
Norton,” answered Richard. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Norton had said nothing to Sylvia. Excusing 
himself to M. de Solis, he begged him not to allow 
the marchioness to suspect anything, and Georges, 
finding his mother, left the Villa Normande, carry- 
ing away with him a strange sensation, the sensa- 
tion that Richard, without really guessing the truth, 
yet had the perception, that to Sylvia’s nervous suf- 
fering there was added some mental suffering, and 
that the American would, hereafter, try to fall on the 
scent until he knew all. But in the meantime he 
had to face an unexpected crisis in his transatlantic 
affairs. 

Richard asked Montgomery to come back in the 
forenoon of the following day. He, Norton, would 
pass the greater part of the night in making the cal- 
culations necessary to meet the catastrophe. He 
was, besides, ready for the struggle, having lost 
nothing of that energy, of that combativeness, of 
that courage, at once moral and muscular, which the 
Americans call pluck. He was up early, having 
arranged an entire plan of campaign. Pie took a 
steamer for Havre, as he wished, before leaving 


l’americaine. 


237 


France, to give some instructions to his banker and 
also to engage on board the Normandie , which was 
to sail in three days, staterooms for himself and 
Sylvia, for he might, perhaps, ask his wife to accom- 
pany him. 

He disliked, in fact, to leave Sylvia in France, 
and the thought of his inundated mines at St. John 
was less painful to him than the moral anxieties 
which increased in him in proportion as he analyzed 
more deeply and at a nearer view his wife’s state of 
mind. 

“He struggled, voluntarily, not against a feeling 
of jealousy, but against ideas which saddened, which 
troubled him and which made him regard, almost as 
a matter of little importance, the misfortune, the 
news of which had been brought by the telegraph. 
And he, the man of deeds, of success, shrugged his 
shoulders — those shoulders which he had thought 
broad enough to bear everything — and said to him- 
self: 

“ The wound which money makes is not mortal. 
It is moral suffering which kills.” 

The necessity which compelled him to arrange 
his affairs at the bank, to take his berths on the 
steamer, swept from his mind some of his dark fan- 
cies. At Havre, the bustle of life in the port, the 


238 


l'americaine. 


activity in the docks and basins, made him think of 
his own country, the noise and friction of the hard 
labor amid which his youth had been passed. 

Norton experienced, in finding himself among 
these sailors and longshoremen, the sensation of be- 
ing in New York, or some other American port amid 
the hum and hurry of a vast commerce involving 
millions of dollars. Those hides just landed and 
thrown upon the wharf in piles like so many thinly 
sawn boards, those heaps of wood from Norway with 
their fine odor of pine arranged in geometric masses 
so yellow and pure looking that in the distance they 
seemed like great blocks of butter; those bales of 
Campeachy wood, red, as if the hewn trunks were 
still bleeding; those basins where workmen by scores 
were hammering upon the metallic sides of ships; 
where great transatlantic steamers were getting up 
steam in readiness for their departure; where steam- 
ers and sailing vessels were arriving, their sides 
scanned with long voyages and their keels incrusted 
with shells of strange forms unknown in France, 
which had become fastened there in their passage 
through southern seas and whose bizarre form gave one 
the impression of some strange, white floral growth; 
those embankments of earth which were being 
thrown up as far as the eye could reach toward Tan- 


l’americaine. 


239 


carville, the new quays, bright in the clear sunlight, 
that conquest of man over the sea; that activity 
which seemed even simple and slow-going to him 
who could move worlds, yet gave him the vision of 
another existence than that in which he had been 
passing his days at Trouville, more feverish, more 
tumultuous, odors of tar, of wood of the isles, of 
tanned hides, of coal, coke, brine, and of the sea — 
all these impressions met him at every turn, and he 
found himself, as it were, again in the midst of the 
battle, and his spirits rose as do those of the soldier 
at the smell of gunpowder and saltpetre. 

Then, suddenly, when on board the Normandie , it 
was of Sylvia he thought. He again saw all the 
places where, between New York and Havre, he had 
sat with her under an awning during the long days, 
when, with her eyes full of sadness, she regarded 
those two infinitives — the sea and sky. He asked 
for the same two staterooms contiguous to each 
other, which they had occupied. He paused before 
the chart upon which the route passed over, for each 
successive day was marked by a pin surmounted by 
a little tri-colored flag. With what curiosity had 
Eva followed these curves traced on the chart which 
marked the steamer's course. But Sylvia had 
remained impassible, indifferent, as if to her life 


240 


l’americaine. 


must be equally monotonous and empty, whether 
passed in America or Europe. Again, if the wind 
rose, she seemed to breathe with difficulty as if her 
heart were wrung by an unseen hand; as if the gale 
suffocated her. Then she would become cast down 
and gloomy in spirit. Norton recalled these sad, 
melancholy phases in his wife’s conduct, the secret of 
which he seemed to possess to-day. And the image 
of Solis passed and repassed before his eyes. 

Yes, in leaving France he should perhaps take 
Sylvia and Eva with him. He would at least engage 
their places, and he looked through the port-hole of 
the cabin they would occupy, at the port, the ship- 
ping, and said to himself that doubtless she would 
soon be there, and that the misfortune which was 
taking them home might perhaps spare her suffer- 
ing here. 

Assured that the wished for staterooms would 
be reserved for him, Norton, after some final direc- 
tions left at the bank, returned to Trouville, where 
he found Montgomery awaiting him at the Norman- 
villa, reading the New York Herald. 

“Well, my dear Montgomery, everything is 
arranged. I leave on Saturday morning. Three 
days will pass quickly. You will be good enough 
to telegraph me at New York if anything happens 


l’americaine. 


241 


here. But above all, I want you to keep secret the 
dispatch which you brought me. The news of such 
a disaster might be extremely prejudicial to our 
interests. You are one of my partners in the 
Dakota railroad enterprise. I need not, to you, 
enlarge upon the importance of my trip. If Mrs. 
Norton accompanies me, it is just possible that I 
may not return to France. If, on the contrary, she 
remains with my niece, I shall return to Trouville or 
Paris within a short time. Until then, I leave you 
in charge of my material interests in France. I 
only hope no one knows anything yet about the 
disaster.” 

“I think not,” said Montgomery. “At the Casino, 
where you can hear gossip on all the news, I have 
not heard a whisper concerning our dispatch.” 

“So much the better. I shall have time then to re- 
pair everything before the alarm shall have been given. 
I have thought the whole matter over and am pre- 
pared. The trouble is in reality not beyond remedy. 
But evil reports increase in size as the squares of the 
distances over which they travel. If it were known 
in Paris that the St. John mines were under water, 
my credit, considerable as it is, would be injured, 
and I should need to have everybody’s confidence to 

go on with the great enterprises I still have in hand. 

16 


242 


l’americaine. 


These are enterprises whose success involves the 
happiness and well-being of a world of people, as 
you know. Villages for working women, boarding- 
houses for working men, cheaper railways, special 
coaches for poor people ” 

“Philanthropic vagaries which will doubtless cost 
you dear.” 

“And when have dreams not cost some one 
dear?” said Norton with a sad smile. “Everything 
costs, even chimeras — especially chimeras. Then, 
my friend, it is agreed upon.” 

“Agreed, very well. I will cable you all the 
news at all important! When I say all, I mean that 
I shall leave out some. Yes, there will be much to 
leave out, very much.” And Montgomery added, 
shaking his immense head, “happily.” 

There was in this last word something like a hid- 
den meaning which awoke the attention of Richard. 

“Why happily?” he asked. 

“Oh! if we are to pay attention to all the gossip 
which is hawked about.” 

“Then the world has words to lose, it seems,” 
said Norton. 

“If it only were a question of losing them. But 
on the contrary it picks up stories.” 


l’americaine. 


243 


“What do you mean, Montgomery? You know 
I do not like enigmas. What have you heard?” 

“Oh! nothing. Nothing at all. I was just phil- 
osophizing.” 

“Ah! there is my wife,” he said, looking out the 
window. “My wife and M. Berniere. They have 
been to visit Mrs. Norton. And, by the way, yes 
there is to be a party to-day, a surprise party.” 

“You have not told Mrs. Montgomery about the 
dispatch I received, have you?” 

“No, oh, no! Besides, my wife and I talk very 
little together. And never of business. We talk 
art, painting and portraits.” 

And Montgomery heaved a sigh like the blast 
from a blacksmith’s bellows. He had begun to ex- 
plain why he sighed in this manner, when Mrs. 
Montgomery, superb in a dress of old gold, set off 
with moss green ribbons, entered the room. 

“ Bon jour, Norton,” she exclaimed, holding out 
her hand to Richard. 

Then, noticing Montgomery, she added with an 
air of astonishment: “Why, my husband, how are 
you, dear?” 

“Very well,” said Montgomery. 

“Have you seen Harrison?” asked the handsome 
Liliane. 


244 


l’americaine. 


“Now for the portrait — now for it,” growled 
Montgomery, in an aside to Norton. 

“Yes,” he answered, “I have seen Harrison;’.’ and 
again a loud sigh escaped him. 

“And he has accepted?” asked Mrs. Montgomery. 

“He has accepted.” 

“So much the better. He will make an excel- 
lent portrait of me. He already knows my physiog- 
nomy.” 

The second husband of the fair Liliane tried not 
to frown and said: 

“That is precisely what he had the goodness to 
remark. He is a very elegant man, your — this Mr. 
Harrison. And it is a fine thing for me, the second 
husband, to go to ask the first ” 

“Come now, you are not going to be jealous. In 
the first place, though I am not madly in love with 
your name, I am as loyal to it as if it were written with 
two m's. And then if there is any one who ought 
to be jealous — honest now — it is not you; it is Har- 
rison.” 

“Exactly,” interrupted Montgomery. “But all 
the same, I swear to you that Carolus ” 

“Carolus?” 

“Carolus would have painted you a portrait worth 
two of Harrison’s. 


l’americaine. 


245 


“Yes, but then Carolus would have to study me, 
whereas with Harrison all that is already done.” 

Then turning toward Norton, who was not listen- 
ing, his eye fixed in a deep reverie, she asked: 

“Is Sylvia visible?” 

“Certainly,” said Norton. “I pray you to excuse 
me, madam. I should like to take a turn at the 
Casino for a moment. I want,” he said to Mont- 
gomery, in a low voice, “to be seen at the Casino up 
to the last moment, and if my departure can take 
place unnoticed ” 

“I will go with you. You have nothing more 
to say to me, my dear Liliane?” 

“No; good-bye, dear.” 

“Good-bye.” 

The gentlemen started to go out, when Liliane 
recalled her husband with a smile: 

“Ah, Lionel, my dear Lionel!” 

“Liliane?” 

“Oh, thank you, for Harrison, you know. Yes, 
I understand all the merit of what you have done. 
I thank you twice over.” 

“With two m's ,” said Montgomery with a sigh, as 
he went out. 

Liliane followed her husband with that indulgent 
expression habitual to women who are accustomed 


246 


l’americaine 


to resign themselves, and then she asked a valet to 
announce her presence to Mrs, Norton. 

Sylvia was in her room, reclining upon an exten- 
sion chair; and half rising, she seemed to welcome 
this visit which came to her like a ray of sunlight. 

“Good day, my dear. Let me look at her face,” 
said Liliane, and she examined her friend’s visage. 

“Oh, we are not so badly off to-day. I have 
wanted so to see you to-day. But my visit will not, 
perhaps, cause you so much pleasure as it will me.” 

“What are you saying?” said Sylvia. “You 
know how much I love you.” 

“Oh! I mean that I am so wild, and my fools 
bells may not please your melancholy. But to-day,” 
and she lowered her voice, “I have something to 
say to you — yes, something serious. I shall almost 
have to scold you.” 

“Me?” said Mrs. Norton, astonished at the 
grave air so suddenly affected by her friend. 

“Yes; you have not been sufficiently prudent, my 
dear. You promenade on the beach — all alone — too 
late!” 

“That is what Dr. Fargeas is always repeating to 
me — that he also thinks I am imprudent, as you say. 
But it is idle for him to pretend that the sea-air at a 
certain hour is bad for my chest, or my nerves, I am 


L AMERICAINE. 


247 


liot quite sure which, for I experience none the less 
an infinite pleasure in being alone, free, thinking 
about anything I like, going where I please on the 
then deserted beach.” 

“I understand,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “But it 
is not your solitary beach walks that I have to scold 
you for.” 

“What is it then?” 

Liliane hesitated a moment, as if she feared she 
might be indiscreet in what she was about to say; 
then softly seating herself by the side of her friend, 
she took both her hands in her own: 

“My dear Sylvia, you know whether I love you 
or not. I would throw myself into the water for you. 
And when I say into the water, I must confess that 
that would be no great sacrifice in this weather. 

I would throw myself into the fire. Truly! I would 
like to see you happy, very happy, and I know that 
you are not happy. But I know that change of 
scene will not bring happiness.” 

“I do not understand you, said Sylvia, aston- 
ished. 

“And yet it is very simple. Look at me, for 
example. I married Harrison. I do not know pre- 
cisely why I married him. I soon conceived a 
strong repugnance for him; I do not know why — I 


248 


L AM ERI CAINE. 


accepted the hand of Mr. Montgomery, in virtue of, 
I know not what impulse. Well, in all sincerity, my 
dear friend, the difference, oh! monDieu , amounts to 
nothing. A husband is always a husband. He who 
replaces one husband is but another.” 

Sylvia looked at Liliane with her deep, sorrowful 
eyes: 

“I am listening to what you say, my dear Liliane, 
but truly, I swear to you, I do not know what you 
mean.” 

“Well, then, you will permit me to speak frankly?” 

“I want you to speak frankly.” 

“And you will not be angry at anything I may 
say?” 

“Not at all.” 

“You know — I repeat that I am your friend.” 

“And my only friend,” said Mrs. Norton, in a 
firm voice. 

“What have you done to Arabella Dickson?” 

“To Arabella?” 

“Or to Mrs. Dickson, or to Colonel Dickson, or, 
in short, to any of the trio?” 

“I have done nothing at all to them,” answered 
Sylvia, very much surprised. “I do not know the 
Dicksons. I think Miss Arabella is very handsome, 
that is all. ’ 


l’americaine. 


249 


“That is all! And do you suppose that you can 
dismiss the family with a simple ‘that is all/ when 
you have to deal with a mother determined to marry 
off her daughter, a daughter who has been exhausted 
in showing off her pretty shoulders and arms from 
Monte Carlo to Weisbaden, and from Luchon to 
Dinard, to say nothing of the redoubtable colonel, 
who has besieged more prospective sons-in-law than 
he ever did citadels? Well, everybody is furious 
against you, my dear Sylvia, and there is gossip and 
gossip. It is like the buzzing of a hive of bees — 
and not honey bees, either,” added Liliane, laughing. 

Sylvia became anxious without the power to 
explain the cause of this anxiety. 

“And why these rumors? ” she asked at length. 
“The more you talk to me of the Dicksons the less I 
understand how I can possibly — ” 

“Well, do not be angry then. M. de Solis — ” 

“M. de Solis?” 

“Yes; it is upon him that the colonel and Mrs. 
Dickson and Miss Dickson have trained their batter- 
ies. And M. de Solis does not seem inclined to 
capitulate, and as he, perhaps, has reasons for 
not doing so — ” 

“Reasons! What reasons ?”asked Sylvia, brusquely. 

“Can you ask?” said Mrs. Montgomery. “Now, 


250 


l’americaine. 


Sylvia, I am going to prove to you all my affection 
for you by showing myself very indiscreet. But I 
swear to you,” she said, with an accent of sincerity, 
“ yes, I swear to you that it is the friendship I bear 
you which compels me to speak. I have said that 
you were very imprudent. Well, I repeat you are 
very imprudent.” 

“I? And what do you mean?” 

“Wait! You have often gone in the direction of 
Tourgeville to a fisherman’s hut — very picturesque,. 
I have photographed it; I will show you the nega- 
tive. It was a splendid success. My apparatus is'an 
excellent one; it is a detective. But you have gone 
there, more than once, at an hour when there was 
scarcely any — photogenic light!” 

“ I went to carry food to a poor woman in whom 
I am interested,” said Sylvia. 

Liliane smiled. 

“Oh! I know that very well. But the misfortune 
is, that no later than yesterday you were seen — ” 

“Yesterday?” 

“And that five minutes after your entry into 
Mother Ruaud’s, M. de Solis — ” 

“M. de Solis?” 

“Opened the door also and entered after you.” 

“After me?” 


l’americaine. 


251 


“I do not know what Colonel Dickson could have 
been doing in that neighborhood —some reconnoiss- 
ance — offensive, no doubt. The awkward fact is that 
he saw you.” 

Sylvia started to her feet and an angry red 
mounted to her pale cheeks. 

“He saw me at Mother Ruaud’s, with M. de Solis ? 
It is false,” she cried indignantly. “He has lied! 
He may have seen M. de Solis. He may have seen 
another woman, but it was not I. It was not I.” 

Her tone of melancholy sincerity almost made 
Mrs. Montgomery regret that she had spoken. 

“I believe you, my dear Sylvia, I believe you. 
But none the less the colonel and his parrot of a wife 
have told the story.” 

“What does jt matter to me what they say?” 
said Sylvia shrugging her shoulders. “What do I 
care what people do, of whose existence I am igno- 
rant and whose occupation seems to be to spy upon 
my actions? M. de Solis at Victor Ruaud’s, with 
another woman!” 

She stopped suddenly, thoughtful, anxious, and 
then said abruptly: 

“What other woman?” 

Liliane shook her head, smiling almost sadly; 
for Liliane was always smiling. 


252 


l’americaine. 


“Oh! my poor dear. That is a question I will 
not advise you to ask of any one else than myself.” 

“What have I done?” asked Sylvia, as if uncon- 
scious of the avowal contained in her thoughtless 
interrogatory. 

“Oh! nothing. But the simple idea that another 
— the simple idea — Why you are jealous, my poor 
dear. It is more serious than I would have believed. 
You love him always. I envy you the capacity to 
really love some one — only I pityyou, too.” 

She took in her arms, as she spoke, the young 
, wife, whose eyes were moist with tears; and with 
maternal pity she tried to infuse a little confidence 
into this soul in distress. 

A gentle knock at the door made both women 
start. 

“Dry your eyes, Sylvia.” 

Then smiling, “Come in,” she said. It was Dr. 
Fargeas. 

“Well, I am surprised,” he said, laughing. “Your 
villa is certainly well guarded. Not a servant to 
announce my coming. Well, Madame Norton, how 
are our nerves to-day? Are we getting the better 
of them a little?” 

“You see,” said Liliane, pointing to the still 
tearful Sylvia. 


l’americaine. 


253 


“Oh! oh!” and the doctor shook his head. “No, 
we are not getting the better of them, the miserable 
nerves. What is the matter with us this morning?” 

“I do not know — a turn.” 

“Which I was so silly as to provoke by a piece 
of idle gossip,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “You are 
angry with me?” she asked Sylvia. 

“No, my dear Liliane; on the contrary, I see that 
you love me tenderly.” 

The doctor screwed his lips into a grimace, ex- 
pressive of his displeasure. 

“Ah! these emotions, these super-excitements. 
You know I must forbid all that. It is like the sea- 
side. I do not think we shall succeed at the sea- 
side. We must try the mountains, I think. Bag- 
neres, Cambo, or simply go back to Paris. It is 
there, after all, where we have the least degree of 
cold in winter and of heat in summer.” 

“We are never so well off as when we are at 
home,” said Liliane. “I have an idea, doctor. What 
if Sylvia should go back to America?” 

Fargeas shook his head. 

“A voyage! no, no! Do not think of that. But 
I should like, without going so far — remaining in 
France, that she should have some calm, some 
repose. Have you a pen ? I will write a prescription.” 


254 


l’americaine. 


And while he wrote rapidly, using Sylvia’s bureau 
for a desk, Liliane read over his shoulder: 

“ Iodide of Sodium — 50 centigrammes a day, 
night and morning, in a teacupful of the decoction 
of valerian. To be continued for one month.” 

“Always the same thing,” she said. 

“Ah! you think so?” said the doctor. “There 
might be other remedies — but — ” 

“But?” asked Liliane. 

“ Pardon, dear madame. The faculty has its 
secrets.” 

‘.‘And a woman can guess them sometimes,” re- 
torted Mrs. Montgomery. 

She had turned toward Sylvia, who had just 
received from a valet some cards which he had 
brought on a tray, and she noticed the emotion of 
Mrs. Norton. 

“ What now? ” she asked. And in turn she ex- 
amined the cards: Monsieur de Berniere, the Mar- 
quis and the Marchioness de Solis. 

“Georges de Solis!” exclaimed Liliane. “But 
you cannot receive them.” 

“And why should I not receive them?” said Syl- 
via. “Only I need to compose myself. What you 
have said has unnerved me a little. Would you be 
kind enough, my dear friend, to ask the marchioness 


l’americaine. 


255 


to be a little patient? Take them into the parlor; I 
will join you in a moment.” 

“Very well, I will go down,” said Liliane. 

She looked at Dr. Fargeas, who was still writing 
and who had not raised his head during this conver- 
sation, and as she went out the door she thought: 

“Valerian ! For the heart — yes, that may hinder 
its beating, but it will not keep it from suffering.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


Madame de Solis, with her son and nephew, was 
waiting in the parlor, whose wide open door gave a 
glimpse of the blue sea dotted with bright sails; of 
the sky striped with lines of sea-gulls, like swirls of 
snowflakes — the whole making a background as of 
some admirable piece of tapestry. 

“I beg you to excuse Mrs. Norton,” said Liliane, 
on entering. “She will be with you in a moment. 
If you will accept me as her substitute — ” 

“I hope we are disturbing no one,” said Madame 
de Solis. 

“Not even myself, who have finished my pre- 
scription,” said Dr. Fargeas, entering. 

“A patient?” asked the marchioness. 

The son completed his mother’s question. 

“Mrs. Norton?” 

“Oh! always the same state of over-excitement, 
but nothing more serious, thank heaven,” answered 
Dr. Fargeas. 

“You undertake to cure Mrs. Norton, do you not, 
doctor?” asked M. de Solis. 

“If the colonel were here he would guess the 

256 


l’americaine. 


257 


whole secret quickly, and he would need no field- 
glass either,” thought Liliane. 

“Mrs. Norton will not be in any danger,” said 
Fargeas, “unless she is made to experience too 
violent emotions. We have nothing of that sort to 
dread, I hope. And you, marquis, do you think of 
remaining at Trouville for any length of time?” 

“You say that, doctor,” said the marchioness 
laughing,' “exactly as if you should ask my son, 
‘Are you not going away soon?’ ” 

Fargeas answered solemnly: 

“Change is what I oftenest recommend — change 
of air, change of ideas. There is everything in it.” 

“But you said to me one day, doctor,” said Liliane, 
“that there was nothing equal to the home, the cozy 
fireside.” 

“Ah!” And the doctor nodded, as he usually did 
when he was about to utter a philosophical opinion: 
“That depends on the nature and gravity of the 
malady.” 

“I was of your first opinion yesterday,” said the 
marchioness, “and I was about to beg my son to 
make a sacrifice for me — to come and keep me com- 
pany at Solis, but I have thought better of it. And 
I have had letters from there. Solis is dull — dull. 
We shall have no vintage this year. There is not a 

17 


258 


l’americaine. 


grape. Solis is like Paris — it is affected with that 
moral sickness which all your remedies cannot cure, 
doctor. It has — but Mrs. Montgomery will be angry 
with me — ” 

“Why?” asked Liliane. 

“Because what I am about to say is very uncom- 
plimentary to your countrywomen.” 

“I'll wager you are going to rally the Amer- 
ican men and women, and laugh at what you call — 
it is a little difficult to pronounce — Americanisms.” 

“Exactly,” answered the marchioness. 

Berniere, who was sitting in a corner of the room, 
and who had as yet said nothing, interrupted the 
marchioness abruptly: 

“The American women! Do not speak slight- 
ingly of them, my aunt. They are superior creatures. 
They are the true women. It is the American 
women alone who are now in fashion.” 

“Thanks!” said Liliane, mockingly. 

But the marchioness, leaning back in her arm 
chair like a woman of the eighteenth century, as 
she was, paid no heed to the interruption. 

“All that you say,” she went on, “has not hindered 
America from ravaging the vines of Solis, and with 
our vines, our French manners — our poor, old, inti- 
mate, cozy French manners. It has not prevented 


L AMERICAINE. 


259 


your America, with its delicious women, from bring- 
ing to Paris, as to my poor vines at Solis, a noth- 
ing — a mere nothing — an American disease — the mil 
dew.” 

“The — what is its name?” asked Berniere. 

“The mildew.” 

“Pronounced mil-dee-00,” said Mrs. Montgomery 
laughing. 

“I understand, madame. And what is the mildew, 
if you please, aunt?” 

“Ask the doctor,” said Madame de Solis. 

“You are not a wine-grower, that is certain,” said 
the doctor. 

“No,” replied Berniere. 

“Well,” said the marchioness, “the mildew is an 
amiable fungus parasite, which was moldering 
quietly twelve or fifteen years ago in America, and 
which our good vines did not know until some one 
took it into his head to transplant American vines 
into France. Before that time we had the phyllox- 
era ” 

“The' phylloxera sounds more patriotic,” said 
Berniere. 

“We fought the phylloxera and we have the mil- 
dew. The mildew — that little red parasite which 
stains the green leaves red and dries them up, which 


26 o 


l’americaine. 


shrivels, which eats, which at least kills them. And 
when you try to kill it with sulphur and lime, 
and think it is burned out, buried with the 
winter’s snows, behold! it reappears with the roses 
in the spring. The mildew, that necessity for 
tumult, for riches, for movement, for luxury, for 
bustle, which makes of our France an America on a 
small scale! The mildew, that incessant din which 
has replaced that good, old-fashioned, modest, un- 
pretending French life — the life of our grand- 
mothers; the mildew, that eternal pose, that ever- 
lasting pretense, that exposure to the public gaze 
of the details of private life, of all that was intimate 
and sweet, and, as it were, perfumed with peace, 
which characterized the life we used to live. And 
yet the heart is as warm, good will is as extensive, 
wit is as sparkling; there are the same virtues in 
this beautiful France of ours, and the vine which the 
sun gilds and matures always produces the most 
generous wine; but observe, the wit, the good will, 
the heart, the vine and the life, all are stung, all are 
stained by this moral mildew. There is something 
the matter with all these things. What? Some- 
thing imponderable; something indefinable. I do 
not say incurable. It is nothing, and yet it is some- 
thing. It^is not grave, and it may not be mortal. 


l’americaine. 


261 

It is — what shall I call it, my nephew? It is the 
chic , the luxury, it is the pose, it is the crack of the 
whip in the fierce steeple-chase for distinction, it is 
the moldering of the virtues — it is the mildew!” 

“Good heavens!” cried Mrs. Montgomery, who 
had listened to this bantering speech of the march- 
ioness as she would have listened to an air at the 
opera. “And are we the cause of all this?” 

“Mo?i Dieu! Yes,” said Madame de Solis. “Pretty 
nearly! But there are exceptions,” she added, with 
a smile. 

“And here is one,” cried Mrs. Montgomery, 
pointing to Eva, who was entering. 

“My dear Eva, you must come to the rescue. 
They are slandering our America.” 

Eva paused, after saluting Madame de Solis. 

“They are slandering America? Who?” she asked, 
drawing up her pretty head in a charming bellicose 
manner. 

“The marchioness,” answered Liliane, “who 
blames us with having perverted Paris, damaged the 
vines, and I do not know what besides.” 

Madame de Solis was smiling. 

“Oh! it was a little tirade,” she said. “It was not 
meant for you, my dear child, nor for Mrs. Mont- 
gomery. But I am an old Frenchwoman, a little 


262 


l’americaine. 


obstinate in my preference for the old-fashioned 
ways, and wherever I see eccentricities showing 
their claws ” 

“You cry out that the offending innovators are 
American,” said Liliane. 

“Entirely unjust,” said Doctor Fargeas. “In the 
matter of follies, we have no need of importations. 
We manufacture them readily enough for ourselves.” 

“I shall not permit myself to reply to Madame 
de Solis,” said Eva, “but I think that we have much 
to pardon in each other, both French and Americans. 
It is quite natural that the Americans in Paris should 
be judged, as we judge the French in New York. 
When I first came here I actually thought I was in 
Babylon ” 

“Hanging gardens and all?” said M. de Berniere. 

“Oh! worse than that — A succession of caverns.” 

“And now, how do you find it?” 

“Oh! now I find that I was unjust — like the 
marchioness, no doubt.” 

“We have not yet invented the mildew,” said 
Madame de Solis. 

She had approached Eva and was looking at a 
little circlet of gold, ornamented with pearls, which 
adorned the young girl’s wrist. 

“Why, what a pretty bracelet you have!” 


l’americaine. 


263 


“It is not from Tiffany’s, it is French,” said Eva; 
and turning to Georges she said, in a bantering tone: 
You see, Monsieur de Solis, it is not one of those 
heavy bracelets we were speaking of — do you 
remember?” 

“Ah! true!” said the marquis. 

“Do you like it?” 

“Yes.” 

“It is just like Sylvia’s.” 

“It is charming!” said Georges. 

“Charming!” added Liliane. 

And Eva thought: “Charming because Sylvia 
thinks it is pretty.” 

Berniere, who had also examined the bracelet, 
repeating, like everybody else, the word charming , 
asked Liliane, suddenly: 

“Ah! Mrs. Montgomery — pardon! Will you 
permit me a question?” 

“Certainly.” 

“What is this little paper I received yesterday, 
signed by you?” And he took from his card-case a 
piece of folded cardboard. 

“Well! haven’t you read it?” 

“Have I read it? See, it says: ‘To-morrow at six 
o’clock, precisely — surprise party . Villa Normande 
— at Mrs. Norton’s.’ ” 


264 


l’americaine. 


“Surprise party, well?” 

“Well? That signifies that to-day — at six o’clock 
— without Mrs. Norton’s knowledge, we invade her 
villa, install ourselves at her piano, we dance, we 
are masters of the house; we give a party at 
Sylvia’s and she knows nothing of it. You do not 
know it? It is an American custom.” 

“The mildew,” repeated Madame de Solis. 

Fargeas smiled: 

“Then the gossips do not lie. They really do 
these things over there?” 

“Right along. A surprise party does not please 
you then. A party sprung upon you at your own 
house, suddenly, at an unexpected hour.” 

“With a disarrangement of my books? Why I 
should feel like sending out for the police.” 

“That would be useless. When you want them 
they are never to be found.” 

“ But,” said Eva laughing, “ now that you have 
let me know, it is no surprise party.” 

“ Well, do not tell Sylvia, who knows nothing 
about it,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “ It may distract 
her a little.” 

“ Especially as we shall be numerous,” said Ber- 
niere. “The handsome Miss Arabella is to be one 
of us.” 


l’americaine. 


265 


“ How! Miss Dickson!” 

“Why, yes; she was reading in my presence, 
on the beach, a similar invitation signed by your 
hand.” 

“Ah! so she did. I had forgotten. I have made 
a fine mess of it. I had sent off the letters before 
I heard of the colonel’s tattle about Sylvia. And it 
is just like him to come, and Mrs. Dickson, too; the 
trio, in fact. Oh! how disagreeable it will be!” 

“Why?” asked Berniere. 

“ Nothing. We will see the colonel maneuver, 
that is all.” 

The Marchioness de Solis leaned over and whis- 
pered to Dr. Fargeas: 

“ They are a little flighty, are they not? All these 
American women?” 

“ No, not all. You yourself have made excep- 
tions;” and jerking his head in the direction of Eva, 
who was talking with Georges, he repeated: “No 
not all, there are exceptions.” 

“I know,” said the marchioness, “the mildew 
does not destroy all the bunches.” 

And as Sylvia entered, the doctor wanted to add 
that she, too, was not tainted with the mildew, as the 
marchioness may have supposed; but Mrs. Norton 
had already gone to Madame de Solis, and with her 


266 


l’americaine. 


sweet, languid voice, begged pardon for having kept 
her waiting. 

“I was not very well,” she said. 

“ Your poor health. I did hope you were getting 
better.” 

“Ask the doctor as to that,” said Sylvia. 

“She ought to be better than she is,” said Far- 
geas. “I am not quite satisfied with her, to tell the 
truth.” 

Madame de Solis studied with a sort of mortal 
anxiety — selfish in reality — the pretty American 
matron whom her son scarcely seemed to notice, and 
with an expression of real good-will, she said, speak- 
ing deliberately: 

“I do not understand the science of medicine 
very well, but it seems to me, dear Mrs. Norton, 
that there must be a good deal of imagination 
in your suffering.” 

“Imagination!” And Sylvia seemed to be trying 
to ascertain what her real condition of mind was. 

“ Oh! I know very well,” said the marchioness. 
“ As soon as we believe we are ill, we are ill. How 
unhappy one is, mentally, as soon as he believes he 
is. How easily one can imagine he is in love to the 
point of dying for it, from the moment he imagines 
he is in love. Am I not right, doctor?” 


l’americaine. 


267 


“Yes, yes. That is a part of my theory. I expend 
my pity only upon the misfortunes which are 
inevitable.” 

“Which are? ” asked Georges, who felt it neces- 
sary to take part in the conversation. 

“Oh! I think I have already given you, over and 
over again, my formula. Do not make me reiterate. 
It is a proverb. It is my formula of the three capi- 
tal M's. 

“Two more than are found in Montgomery of 
New York,” said Liliane, laughing. 

“And what are the three M’s, doctor?” 

“Oh, not a very reassuring trio, I grant you. La 
Misere, la Maladie,et la Mort (poverty, sickness and 
death). The rest? Pah! It is imagination, as 
madame says.” 

“But,” insisted the marquis without looking at 
Sylvia, who was listening intently, “the malady 
which originates in some moral suffering, something 
concealed, a broken ideal, a stifled love — ” 

“That is a question. You have seen many such 
affections?” asked Fargeas, with a skeptical air. 

“It is sufficient to encounter one to pity it.” 

M. de Solis had uttered these words in a deep, 
grave tone; and as Sylvia was near him, he added 
rapidly in a voice so low that she alone could hear: 


268 


l’americaine. 


“To pity and adore it.” 

Sylvia did not answer, pretending not to have 
heard; but this proof of adoration given furtively, 
imprudently, with that species of defiance which 
impels those who love to rush into danger; this 
hurriedly spoken word penetrated her heart. The 
quick eye of Eva had noted the least sign of emo- 
tion on Sylvia’s face, and at the same time the 
almost imperceptible movement of the marquis’ 
lips, while speaking to Mrs. Norton. 

The mother also saw, perhaps, for, interrupting 
the enthusiastic outburst of her son, she said sweetly: 

“Well, I have seen many of these true loves and 
I am an old enough woman to avow that I have 
heard the rustle of the wings of some of them. 
But perhaps I shall scandalize Mis? Eva, if I tell her 
that when one swears he will die for her handsome 
eyes, it is very pretty, very agreeable, very musical, 
but it is only a phrase ready made, which has little 
importance. She must pay no attention to it. I 
know men who have said it a hundred times to a 
hundred different women, and who are not all dead. 
Am I taking all the poetry out of your life, my child ?” 
added the marchioness, smiling at Eva. 

“Not at all,” said Eva concisely. “I should 
greatly prefer to have a gallant man, in the place of 


l’americaine. 


269 


promising to die for my handsome eyes, as yon say, 
swear to live for me.” 

“And you are right. It is more difficult,” said 
the marchioness, adding in a low tone to Liliane, 
“she is ravishing.” 

“But an American, however. How about the 
mildew?” 

“Oh! I said that it could be cured,” replied Mad- 
ame de Solis. 

Doctor Fargeas was visibly interested in this 
conversation, which, under the guise of an exchange 
of commonplaces, concealed a secret half divined, 
a latent suffering; a little of that sickly sentimental- 
ism which he was wont to treat by the antiseptic 
method, like any other microbe. 

“Well,” he said, “it is Miss Eva, the least roman- 
tic of young women, who has just recited for me a 
phrase of romance.” 

“I?” 

“You! A man who would swear to live for you 
and with you. But to live or die, my dear child, is, 
in these cases, about the same thing. The one has 
no more importance than the other. And afterward, 
divorce ” 

“Ah! divorce,” cried Madame de Solis. “It 


2J0 


LAMERI CAINE. 


seems to me that this is also something American. 

Divorce, another kind of mil ” 

Mrs. Montgomery interrupted her quickly: 

“Do not say anything against divorce. I know 
people who have tried it, and whom you might 
wound.” 

“Well,” asked Fargeas, “what do these people 
say of it, after their experience?” 

The handsome Liliane seemed to reflect a mo- 
ment, and then with a gesture expressive of indiffer- 
ence, she said: 

“Pah, divorce is like marriage. From afar it is 

attractive; near by it is ” 

“ Dame /” ejaculated the doctor. “Divorce, then, 
has its honeymoon. But it wanes like aJl honey- 
moons. What I have against divorce is, that it 
takes away a part, or all of the poetry of marriage — 
the poetry of a prison if you will. But a dungeon is 
more picturesque than a lodging room in an inn. 
Thanks to divorce, marriage has become vulgarized.” 

“And yet in our frightful America, as the mar- 
chioness would probably term it, divorce has its 
pleasant side,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “I am tired! 
I want to escape! My cage is killing me! I open it) 

I fly! I am happy! I encounter my ” 

“My ideal,” said Madame de Solis. 



DIVORCE THEN HAS ITS HONEYMOON 



l’americaine. 


271 


“Retouched;” and Berniere completed the idea. 

“Presto! Here is my hand! Oh! no publicity! You 
please me! I please you. Let us be married! And 
they set about getting married. Quick! a license! 
A magistrate! A Protestant minister or a Catholic 
priest, either is good enough. How do you do! 
Good-bye! One or two questions, a short address, 
a certificate or paper — free. A fee to the officiating 
clergyman. A shake of the hand with the magis- 
trate! And all is done. It is sharp and cold as the 
blade of a knife! I confess,” added Liliane, “that I 
have sometimes regretted the pomp and music of a 
marriage at the Madeleine.” 

She seemed to be thinking of some dream not 
realized in her career of pretty woman. “Yes, the 
music, the organs, the procession of all Paris in 
the vestry, the sun, the bustle, the notices in the 
newspapers, another kind of poetry that — the poetry 
of the news paragraph.” 

“And yet,” said Miss Eva in her short, serious 
and profound manner, “there is something touching 
and moving in marriage with us, which ought, 
I think, to take away from the ceremony that steel- 
like coldness, of which Mrs. Montgomery has just 
spoken. It is when the minister, opening before 
those present the Book in which as children we have 


272 


l’americaine. 


all learned our prayers, reads: ‘Do you take this 
man — or this woman — in good as well as in evil re- 
port, in health as in sickness, in poverty as in 
riches,’ and the bridal couple respond: ‘Yes, I swear 
it.’ ” 

There was nothing arid or polemical in the 
manner of the girl as she recalled the words of the 
marriage ceremony; nothing of the canting style 
of the dissenters; on the contrary, there was a real 
faith, an astonishing honesty of soul. Georges and 
Sylvia listened, conscience-stricken. 

“And they swear, do they?” said Fargeas. “It 
would be all the same if they did not swear. The 
bride is lovely. The husband is in love. They 
would swear to anything you like. And divorce 
comes, none the less to break the oaths solemnly 
given, like the dead twigs of the faded orange 
flowers which, formed the bridal wreath. Ah! the 
to-morrows of those marriage days! To me divorce 
is not so smile-provoking as it seems to be to Mrs. 
Montgomery. To me it is frightfully utilitarian, 
naturalistic and cruel. Divorces are granted be- 
cause of such or such a mortal sickness; for some 
suffering which has resulted in madness, for some 
misfortune which has made the loved one a paraly- 
tic. You practical people have invented, among 


L AMERICAINE. 


273 


these reasons for separation, infirmities and mis- 
fortunes. You please me, I please you! Very good! 
But you are sick; you have lost your health, poor 
man, or you have become aged and infirm, poor 
woman! Ah! that is another matter. Reason for 
divorce. I have known, it was in the good times, 
in the old times, poor souls whom suffering, instead 
of disuniting, brought closer together. And women 
made it a matter of pride to be able to say that they 
had never belonged to more than one living man.” 

“I have known cases where women were willing 
to iove but one being on earth and that one dead,” 
said the marchioness softly. 

Mrs. Montgomery began to laugh. 

“All that is very fine. But your French ladies 
have found an easy means of evading divorce — even 
before the law. To them divorce is contraband, yet 
they practically enjoy all its benefits without recourse 
to the law. I give you my word, I like the American 
method better. The mildew? Well, call it what 
you will. But it is more loyal, more honest, more 
frank.” 

“Mrs. Montgomery is divorced!” said the mar- 
chioness to the doctor, who, a little bored that he 
had forgotten for a moment, excused himself to 

Liliane. 

18 


2/4 


l’americaine. 

“Madame, believe me, I did not wish to — ” 

“ Oh! it is no matter. At heart I am entirely of 
your opinion. Divorce is like your bromides — you 
change the prescription but cure nothing. Come, 
Berniere, we must organize our famous party. It is 
already four o’clock.” 

“I am at your order,” said the viscount. 

“Now we will leave you, my dear, said Liliane, 
holding out her hand to Sylvia. “I will see 
you again soon. Let us have a little cheerful- 
ness. The marchioness is right. It is imagnary. 
I shall invent some nonsense to amuse you. They 
are very proper — my follies — you know. Good- 
bye for a little time. And no imprudence, mind,” 
she added in a lower voice. 

“You are mistaken,” said Sylvia. “I have com- 
mitted no imprudence — none.” 

“So much the better. Down with the colonel, I 
say.” 

Sylvia disengaged herself from Mrs. Montgomery 
and passing near Georges, she rapidly pronounced 
these words: 

“I have something to say to you, Monsieur de 
Solis.” 

“To me?” 

“Yes. Return in a moment.” 


l’americaine. 


2/5 


Then Liliane, who had surprised this furtive 
movement, thought of what Sylvia had just said to 
her. 

“No imprudence!” And it seemed to her that her 
friend was more indiscreet than she had supposed. 

“Will you accompany us, doctor?” said Madame 
de Solis. 

“Yes; I have to make a visit near by. I will 
come back past the villa to hear how Mrs. Norton is, 
or rather for the pleasure of seeing her again.” 

“No ill-will, doctor,” said Liliane, holding out 
her hand to Fargeas as she passed before him. 

“No ill-will, madame.” 

Georges de Solis bowed low as he left Sylvia. 
He went out with his mother, while Eva, looking a 
little pale, followed him with her eyes. The young 
girl when alone with Sylvia said, after a short 
silence: 

“Madame de Solis is charming.” 

“Yes and her son?” said Sylvia hesitating. 

“The marquis?” asked Eva a little surprised. 

“Yes.” 

“He is an acccomplished gentleman,” said Eva 
coldly. 

“Better than that; he is a nobleman.” 

Eva smiled lightly and replied in a dry voice: 


276 


l’americaine. 


“Say an honest man and all is said.” 

Sylvia looked at her niece: “You do not like 
M. de Solis very much, my dear Eva.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“The way in which you speak of him.” 

“ I never speak of M. de Solis,” she answered 
shortly. 

“Has not Mr. Norton spoken to you of him?” 

“My uncle?” 

“Your uncle has some plans concerning you, and 
though he wants to leave you in perfect liberty — ” 

Eva felt vaguely that in speaking of him Sylvia 
wanted to know what she thought of M. de Solis. 

“Norton!” continued Sylvia, “would certainly be 
very happy to know that your future were assured 
by a union — ” 

“What union?” interrupted Eva. “Has M. de 
Solis given you authority to speak to me of him?” 

“No; I said that your uncle — ” 

“My uncle is not unaware that my ideas of mar- 
riage are very well defined. The oath which I shall 
take, as I said a moment ago, will be for my whole 
life, and I will not accept that oath from any man, 
unless he will love me, as I shall love him, with all 
his soul. I am not speaking of M. de Solis. I am 
speaking of myself, who do not love him.” 


l’americaine. 


2 17 

These words were spoken with a firmness which 
smacked of the truth, and the flash of an involuntary 
joy shone for a moment in Sylvia’s sad eyes. 

“You do not love him! Eva. You do not love M. 
de Solis?” 

“No” 

But Sylvia insisted, “Look me in the eyes, Eva. 
You are my sister, my cherished sister. I thought 
I noticed in your face when I spoke of M. de 
Solis—” 

“I do not love M. de Solis,” interrupted the young 
girl. “And I repeat, I will never be the wife of a 
man whom I do not love.” 

This time there was in the firm tone of the 
response something hostile which disturbed Mrs. 
Norton. 

“What do you mean, my dear Eva? What I said 
has not wounded you?” 

“Wounded? No,” replied Eva. “You wanted 
to know what was in my heart. I have told you 
frankly, like a sister, since you give me that name. 
And why should I love M. de Solis? Can he love 
me?” 

“Who told you,” and Eva hesitated, “that M. 
de Solis — ” 

This time there was a noticeable degree of bitter- 


278 


l’americaine. 


ness in the words of the girl. Sylvia looked at her 
fine, large, clear eyes, her dark hair and her hand- 
some profile and then said: 

“If he can love you, with your grace, your 
beauty, your goodness — ” 

“Oh! others are handsome, others are good,” said 
Eva. “Perhaps others love him. And he, do you 
suppose he cares for me?” 

Her eye as she spoke fell upon the bracelet which 
M. de Solis had admired, but a little while before, 
admired because it resembled Sylvia’s, and then 
slowly as if talking to herself she said: 

“Even while talking to me he was thinking of 
another!” 

“Of another? Eva, child, what do you mean? I 
wish to know ” 

“What? The secret of M. de Solis? Ask him 
when you see him; he will tell you certainly.” 

She uttered these last words in a brusque tone, 
as if she wanted to terminate a conversation which 
displeased her, which weighed upon her; and in spite 
of an appeal from Sylvia, she went out, pushing the 
door shut behind her, and went up to her chamber, 
her breast shaken with sobs. 

“Eva!” 

But she was already far away seeking a solitary 


l’americaine. 


279 


spot where without shame she could weep. Did she 
know why? 

Sylvia, alarmed, remained alone. 

A disturbing thought had come into her mind, 
and she still heard in her ears the accent with which 
Eva had, as it were, lashed her face with these sting- 
ing words: 

“The secret of M. de Solis? Ask him when you 
see him.” 

“Does she love him?” she asked herself. 


CHAPTER X. 


M. de Solis was eager to see Sylvia again. Had 
she not told him a moment before, furtively, that 
she had something to say to him? When? At the 
earliest possible moment. Would not a second visit 
to her on the same day seem out of place? Might 
it not awaken suspicion? And again, why should it? 
Was it imprudent to be seen at the villa to-day 
when Sylvia had asked him to “return in a moment?” 
Might he not reappear under pretext of bringing a 
book, or a roll of music? Finally he did not reason 
at all. There was no obstacle. Ready for the 
struggle, he had craved this interview, tired of this 
monotonous existence, of this latent, resigned, con- 
cealed love. His love of adventure, his thirst for 
something new, impelled him to imagine as possible 
some brusque exodus, a flight with this woman, who 
hereafter would share his explorations, his dangers 
and his life. What madness! 

However, this thought had haunted him for 

several days, tortured him. He kept thinking of it 

on his way to the villa, after having taken his 

mother home. He had deceived that dear mother 
280 


l’americaine. 


281 

by telling her that he would stop for a little while 
at the Casino to read the journals, when in fact he 
was going to return to the adored one, to danger. 

Sylvia was still in the large parlor when M. de 
Solis was announced. She had brought a rocking 
chair near the window, and reclining in its comfort- 
able arms she was looking at the deep green sea 
through the dust covered clumps of tamarinds. She 
received M. de Solis as if she had expected him. 
Sure that he would come, she had remained there. 
She reached out to him her hand, and he paused a 
moment to look at her, glad of the silence which 
embarrassed the young woman. 

“Have you not seen Eva?” she said at length, in 
despair of a better topic with which to begin the 
conversation. 

“No. Why should I have seen Miss Meredith?” 

“An idea. I do not know. Do you not think 
that for some time, to-day especially, she has shown 
an aggressive, or a melancholy air? I do not exactly 
know which would be the better word.” 

“I had not noticed it,” said Georges. “She 
seemed gay enough yesterday. She talked and 
laughed as freely as a child.” 

“Yesterday?” asked Sylvia. 

“Yesterday evening.” 


282 


l’americaine. 


“You saw her yesterday, you say?” and Sylvia 
seemed to question Solis with her eyes rather than 
with her voice. 

“I met her at Mother Ruaud’s. She came there 
to bring some food to the poor woman. I went there 
because I wanted to see whether the little Francis 
had lied when he talked to us.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Sylvia, who was thinking of Eva 
and her meeting with Solis. 

M. de Solis continued, recalling the incidents of 
the evening before, the wretched habitation of the 
fisherman’s family, where he had found Miss Mere- 
dith, the sick mother and the sodden, imbruted 
father — 

“It was she then,” interrupted Sylvia. 

“Who?” 

“Nothing. I was just thinking of something Mrs. 
Montgomery has just told me — an absurd story.” 

“What kind of a story?” 

“After all, the colonel, recognizing you, may 
have thought — I notice that Eva dresses like me of 
late, and perhaps, who knows — especially when she 
hoped to meet you — ” 

“I do not understand you at all. Miss Meredith 
could not have expected to meet me at all, at the 
Ruaud’s. She was astonished to find me at the bed- 


l’americaine. 


283 


side of the poor woman, where I surprised her in 
the performance of her charitable act. She blushed 
as if she had been caught in some unworthy action, 
poor girl. But what were you saying just now? The 
colonel? What colonel? Colonel Dickson? An 
absurd story? He saw me and recognized me? Ah! 
I understand. He thought it was you. What of it? 
Suppose it had been you? He ought to know that 
you assume an incognito in order to accomplish your 
w r orks of charity, as others do to conceal their vices. 
It is very simple.” 

“But,” said Sylvia, “he seems to have thought it 
strange that I should go secretly to this poor 
woman’s house at the same hour with you.” 

“And has he said so? Has he been talking?” 

“Evidently, since Mrs. Montgomery has told me 
of it. Next to knaves, I know nothing more detest- 
able than fools. And knave and fool, who knows 
whether this man may not be both.” 

While Sylvia was speaking M. de Solis was nerv- 
ously pulling the point of his black beard as if he 
foresaw a calamity and was seeking some means of 
avoiding it. 

“There is one very simple way of answering 
Colonel Dickson’s nonsense,” said Sylvia, coldly, 
“and that is, to tell him the truth.” 


284 


l’americaine. 


“The truth, and after that what? If he has in- 
vented and peddled about a malicious story at your 
expense, he will invent a similar one on Miss Eva. 
That is all.” 

“It is true,” said Sylvia, “but — ” 

“But what?” 

“Miss Eva is free.” 

“Free! Well,” said Solis, indifferently. 

Mrs. Norton summoned all her powers to her 
aid, that she might not betray her emotion, and 
slowly, as if dropping the words one by one into 
the marquis’ heart, she said: 

“She is charming.” 

Georges repeated the words after her: “She is 
charming.” 

“If I had a brother, I could not ask a better wife 
for him than Miss Meredith.” 

She spoke with a firmness which betrayed her 
thought; that thought of sacrifice in which there 
was a counsel; the idea of a renunciation in which 
there was almost an order. 

“Then it is you who advise me thus?” asked 
Georges bitterly. 

She seemed to unsay her words by a mute 
gesture. 

Solis went on: “From you, too! In a moment 


l’americaine. 


285 


more you will be talking to me about marrying Eva, 
as Norton has just done. Is it to try me, or to 
torture me?” 

“To- torture you? No,” she answered sadly. 

“Is it to try me? Is it to know whether I love 
you now as always, as deeply, as madly?” 

“You may love Eva. Who knows? One forgets 
the past.” 

“Who forgets?” cried Solis gazing fondly at the 
loved one. “Who? The sages, reasonable beings! 
Those who can open and close their hearts at will. 
I am not one of those. How can I forget you when 
I have seen you again, when I have anew breathed 
the same atmosphere with you, when I, unhappy, 
have found you unhappy, suffering with the same 
grief which is torturing and killing me?” 

Sylvia had risen as if to escape from a conversa- 
tion which she had sought, but which she found 
painful, dangerous. 

“If I suffer,” she said, proudly, “do not fear, I 
am able to bear it.” 

The marquis shrugged his shoulders. “Able to 
bear it! and yet you are pale and sad. My anxiety 
for you increases each day, and I am alarmed every 
time I see you. I would have liked to fly far away 
from you, and I ought to have done so, and I would 


286 


l’americaine. 


have done it, I swear to you, if I had found you 
smiling and happy, and no longer thinking about the 
past, whose memory I constantly carry about with 
me. But how can I go, yes, how, when I would have 
to leave you stricken with some malady which Dr. 
Fargeas cannot, with all his skill, diagnose, but 
which is there in your heart, in your memory as well 
as in mine?” 

“Monsieur de Solis!” 

“Ah! you will not say it. You will not say that 
you have not forgotten our poor, young dreams, but 
I see it, I divine it, I know it.” 

He had come nearer to her, and was talking close 
to her ear. He recalled incidents of their past ac- 
quaintance. 

“Do you remember our talks at your father’s 
house, our hopes, and our oaths of fidelity to each 
other?” 

Through the open window, as if it were a fitting 
accompaniment to the tender recollections of the 
pair, there entered the music of a waltz, faint, far off, 
tender, caressing, borne by the wind in fragments 
almost imperceptible, and yet exquisite, saddening, 
like the wraith of a harmony. 

Under the impulse of the mood, created, perhaps, 
in part by the Surroundings, Solis felt himself drawn 


l’americaine. 


287 


softly but invincibly down memory’s slope, and he 
talked of things gone, vanished, lost in the mists of 
time, which to him was the same as death — their first 
meeting, of that evening when one of Sylvia’s friends 
was married— a friend who had since disappeared — 
when they, he the Frenchman and she the pretty 
American, had for a moment found themselves 
standing under the floral bell destined for the bridal 
pair, a bell composed of roses, a sort of fragrant 
cupola, for crowning, like the dome of a church, the 
first kiss of the husband, of the wife. 

How Sylvia had blushed! How pale he had 
become when friends perceiving it had clapped 
their hands exclaiming, “They have passed under 
the floral bell! They are engaged!” 

Instead of feeling himself drawn nearer to Sylvia, 
under those roses, he, poor in purse, felt more than 
ever the reality of the gulf that yawned between them. 

Alas! the aroma of that wedding bell was not to 
be exhaled, except for the marriage of Norton and 
Miss Harley. 

“Oh! I beg of you, I pray you!” said Mrs. Norton, 
whom these memories afflicted. Her voice com- 
manded silence, implored it, but with a sort of mel- 
ancholy satisfaction Georges continued evoking the 
dead past. 


288 


l’americaine. 


“Ah! I was mad that I did not confess all to 
your father; that I did not tell him that I should 
never love anyone but you; that I did not bring you 
away as my living happiness.” 

“It is all past,” said Sylvia, who was still stand- 
ing as if undecided what course to pursue, endeavor- 
ing to master her emotion. 

“Remember that to-day you are talking to an 
honest wife, as you were then talking to an honest 

girl-” 

“It is past, yes,” said he, “but it is breaking my 
heart, it is killing you.” 

There was as much of suffering in the voice of 
Solis, as of resolution in Sylvia’s as she responded: 

“No, we do not die of grief, I assure you, Mon- 
sieur de Solis.” 

“Do you mean to say that if one could die of 
grief, you would be dead? Ah! God! To see you 
again, and to feel that you are stricken to the 
heart, to know that you belong to another!” 

“Do not speak of Norton. He is the most loyal 
of men.” 

“He does not appreciate you. He sees your 
eyes full of tears and he does nothing to stop their 
flow. It seems to me that to bring a smile to your 
lips, I would move heaven and earth.” 


L AMER1CAINE. 


289 


“Norton is your friend! Do not speak of Nor- 
ton,” said Sylvia firmly. 

“Yes!” said the young man, hotly. “He is your 
husband. When I think of it all, this friendship 
weighs uppn me. I hate it, and I almost hate him.” 

“Georges!” 

“Does he love you as much as I?” cried Solis. 
“Does he understand you as I do? Has he made of 
you his single, his only thought in life; always you, 
nothing but you? I think of nothing but you, 
Sylvia. I have spent my life in seeking for another 
aim — another passion. I have taken the memory of 
you everywhere, and have found you everywhere. 
In my far-off wanderings you were with me. If I 
mourned having lost you, I at least had the consola- 
tion of thinking that you were happy. But no, you 
are suffering, unhappy. You weep! You love me!” 

“In the name of Heaven, desist!” she said, fright- 
ened at his vehemence. 

He repeated,. solemnly: “You love me, Sylvia, 
and as there is no happiness for me except with 
you, so there is none for you except with me — ” 

She made a movement as if to leave the room. 
He stopped her. 

“Let me — let me speak. Let me tell you all. I 
have dreamed new dreams since I saw you, but this 

19 


290 


L’AMERICAINE. 


time they are practical dreams, whose realization 
lies within our reach; dreams which can be realized 
to-morrow if you are willing!” 

“What do you mean?” 

He was deathly pale, and there was a madness in 
his eye, the fire of a fever. 

“That happiness which we allowed to escape us,” 
he said, in a low voice, “is not entirely in the past. 
It is in the future, and we can grasp it. It is before 
us. I adore you, Sylvia! I will love you always! 
Will you accept my eternal devotion, my existence 
devoted entirely to your happiness?” 

“Your devotion, your existence ” 

She stammered as she spoke, yet she understood, 
though she wished in a vague way that she had not 
understood. 

“To save your life I would give mine a hundred 
times,” he said with a sudden firmness, in the tone 
of a man who stakes all on the cast of a single die. 
“You are suffering, dying. I can see only you, can 
think only of you. I forget the rest of the world. 
I want you to live. I demand it. Will you?” 

It was not the madness of an hour of which Solis 
was dreaming. It was the sacrifice of an existence, 
renewed, emancipated, the past suddenly realized. 
She trembled. She felt the allurement of the temp- 


l’americaine. 


291 


tation. Confused, tottering, she had sunk upon a 
chair, and with hands clasped, fearing both him and 
herself, she said in a voice trembling with emotion: 

“Monsieur de Solis, I beg you, I conjure you. 
You do not know how you pain me. Leave me, 
leave me.” 

She understood him; yes she understood only too 
well what was in his mind. What he had said had 
planted an agony in her heart, in her brain. She 
felt the intoxication of a possible liberty. 

With the egotism of the lover, the more he saw 
that she was troubled, the more cruelly he caused to 
bleed the wound which he had mercilessly laid bare. 

“Is it not true,” he said, “that all which surrounds 
you in your present life oppresses and kills you by 
inches? Is it not true that your heart is starving? 
Is it not true, Sylvia, that I have guessed your 
secret?” 

“Not another word,” she cried in a frightened 
voice. “Not another word, my friend, in the name 
of that affection of which you are speaking.” 

“You see, affection is no longer willing to resign 
itself, as in the past. In seeing you, true love re- 
volts. I do not speak of Norton. He is a man of 
honor, the most loyal of men, but, again I say, a 
man who does not understand you, who lets you 


292 l’americaine. 

suffer without suspecting the mortal sadness at the 
bottom of your heart. Every human creature, Syl- 
via, has the right to live, the right to exist, the right 
to feel his heart beat in his bosom. We must look 
our rights in the face, and the life I have lived has 
given me the cult of the absolute. The absolute in 
this case is our love, our safety. I love you, and 
never loved any one except you. I shall love you 
always, and I wish to give you my life, my whole 
being. I want to take you away, I do not know 
where, but where we will not die and where we can 
love each other always.” 

“Georges! Georges!” she said influenced, excited 
by this burst of passion, this madness of the lover. 
“ If you knew what torture you are inflicting upon 
me under pretext of consoling me and of pitying 
me!” 

“If these are the last tortures you have to bear, 
what matters it?” cried Georges. 

“The last? Alas!” 

“You see that everything in you revolts, that 
you are suffering mortally. For the safety of the 
human being whom you love most in the world, 
everything is permitted.” 

“ Everything?” 

“ To-morrow, this very night, whenever you will, 


L AMERICAINE. 


293 


we will go. A flight, an elopement; call it what they 
will. We will find some nook in Europe where we 
will be safe from pursuit. A house somewhere at 
the end of the sea, there in front of us, beckons us, 
and there we shall be free.” 

“ Are you mad?” 

“ Free,” he went on, not hearing her - expostula- 
tion, his eye gleaming, his cheeks feverish, his 
breath coming and going in quick respiration. “Yes, 
and if you will, a new life will begin for us, and then 
what matters the world, what matters others? We 
are innocent and we are calumniated. And since 
Dickson’s words injure you the world may malign 
us at will. We shall at least have lived by what to 
us is life itself; our love.” 

“ Monsieur de Solis! Monsieur de Solis, in the 
name of your mother — ” 

“I adore you,” he said desperately, “and I wish 
you to live. I insist upon it that you live. It is for 
you now, knowing how much I love you, to say 
whether you love me enough to sacrifice your life to 
me as I give you mine and forever. Ah! I swear it, 
forever.” 

She was pale as a corpse, her 'mind in a tortur- 
ing whirl, and yet she was happy; as in some hallu- 
cination, some mad dream, She asked herself 


294 


L AMERICAINE. 


whether, after all, what this man was proposing to 
her was not wisdom. He was a man of honor. To- 
day, as in the past, he talked to her of an eternity of 
love. This past to them was like a new springtime, 
newly crowned with the flowers of hope and prom- 
ise. M. de Solis would have given her his name in 
America. He was now offering her all his existence, 
all his being. She felt herself enveloped in a sort 
of delicious intoxication, a sort of light dizziness, 
similar to one of the states of feeling experienced 
by opium-eaters. A voice, the voice of her husband, 
Richard Norton, suddenly recalled her to reality. 

Norton was but a few steps away. He was giv- 
ing an order to or asking a question of a servant. 
Norton! The husband! Law! Duty! 

“It is he,” she said. 

“Norton? I do not want to see him;” and with 
an instinctive movement he started toward the door 
opposite the one by which Richard would enter. 

“Remorse already?” said Sylvia sadly, and with 
a tinge of bitterness. 

“No, jealousy,” he answered, almost fiercely. 
“We will meet again.” 

Sylvia, left alone, watched the door through 
which M. de Solis had just passed. At the same 
time she could hear the voice of Norton, He was 


l’americaine. 


295 


about to enter. She felt* a sensation of depression, 
a kind of moral collapse. It seemed to her that 
Georges had inflicted upon her a real material 
wound. And yet how he had talked! What temp- 
tations, what beautiful dreams! 

“He has given me pain,” she thought. And yet 
she would not have had him keep silent. 

She braced herself against the trial to come when 
Norton entered. 

With pale features, a preoccupied air, almost 
gloomy, he looked about the room as if he expected 
to find some one, and asked: 

“Who was here?” 

“Here?” she reiterated. 

“I heard a voice other than yours.” 

“It was M. de Solis,” she answered. 

“Ah!” 

Norton was silent a moment, then suddenly he 
said: 

“And he left when I came in?” 

“Perhaps he did not know it was you.” 

“Indeed!” and Norton’s voice had a vibrant ring 
in it which was not pleasant to hear. 

“You are not accustomed to lying, my dear 
Sylvia, you are very pale.” 

“Why should I lie?” 


296 


l’americaine. 


“What had M. de Solis to talk about?” asked 
Richard, suspiciously. 

“I do not know — nothing — insignificant matters.” 
She was trying, stammeringly, to frame some evasion. 

“Insignificant!” repeated Norton, ironically. “In- 
significant — necessarily. And all that M. de Solis 
said to you was entirely indifferent, was it — indif- 
ferent, absolutely?” 

“Why do you ask me that? Why do you talk to 
me of M. de Solis?” 

“Oh, nothing!” said Norton, trying meanwhile to 
maintain a calm bearing, in spite of his fast rising 
anger. “Because I have just heard by accident some 
gossip at the Casino, and that, too, by people who 
did not suspect that I was there or that I could hear. 
Everybody at Trouville does not know me.” 

“ And what were those people saying of M. 
de Solis?” asked Sylvia, preparing herself to receive, 
like a dagger stroke in the heart, this new calumny. 

“That concerns you little. But I have to an- 
nounce, my dear Sylvia, apiece of news to which I 
fear you will be less indifferent than to the conversa- 
tion regarding M. de Solis.” 

She waited silently. 

“ A disagreeable piece of news,” added the hus- 
band. 


l’americaine. 


29; 


‘‘What is it?” 

“My business makes my immediate presence 
in New York necessary. We start day after to- 
morrow.” 

“Day after to-morrow?” 

“Saturday, ”he said, coldly. Sylvia simply uttered 
an “Ah!” as if she were resigned. 

“And never to come back to France,” said Nor- 
ton, slowly, looking his wife squarely in the face 
with his steely gray eyes. 

She could not be deceived as to the meaning of 
these last words, and she replied with a little irony 
in her tone, which was otherwise full of sadness: 

“ Your manner of announcing your intention 
of never returning to France resembles a threat. I 
have not been accustomed to hearing you speak in 
that tone.” 

“ I thank you for having noticed it,” answered 
Norton. “But each day we discover something new 
to which we have to become accustomed, if we can. 
I have become accustomed to everything and can 
bear no more.” 

“You speak in enigmas. I do not understand 
you at all.” 

“It is not necessary that you should understand, 
provided you will go with me.” 


298 


l’americaine. 


He walked up and down the room, mechanically 
pulling and twisting his fingers until they cracked, 
his great height a little bent as if he felt an unex- 
pected weight laid upon his broad shoulders. 

“But, in truth,” said Sylvia, “you seem very much 
less interested in returning to America to settle 
your business affairs than in making me leave 
France.” / 

He stopped short, and with a smile said coldly: 

“You seem to understand perfectly, my dear 
Sylvia.” 

Sylvia tossed her pretty head proudly, and the 
melancholy expression of her face gave way to one 
of aggressiveness, almost indignation. 

“I understand that some absurd, odious — worse 
than that — insulting suspicion has taken possession 
of you. I have enough to bear of my own, without 
your augmenting my sufferings by a doubt which 
outrages me.” 

“I have spoken to you about nothing. I have 
simply alluded to rumors, absurd and odious, as you 
say, and you call that an outrage.” 

“It happens, by chance also, that I know the 
reports which you may have heard.” 

“Who has told you of them? M. de Solis?” said 
Norton, whose impatience was visibly increasing. 


l’americaine. 


299 


“Please let M. de Solis rest. At each word you 
speak to me you cast M. de Solis in my teeth.” 

“I speak of him much less than you think of him, 
my dear friend,” said Richard bitterly. 

“I?” 

“M. de Solis, I ought to remember, was your 
father’s guest three or four years ago.” 

“Yes,” she responded simply. 

“M. de Solis was in love with you. M. de Solis 
might have married you.” 

“Yes.” 

“And if he had asked your hand, you would 
have given it to him?” 

“Yes,” she said shortly. 

“Then this melancholy, these tears, these sighs 
which I see daily and which make me so unhappy 
have for cause, that you are still thinking of M. de 
Solis, that you have loved him always, and do not 
love me at all?” 

Sylvia answered with the same loyal frankness: 

“I swore to be your wife and I will give you all 
my life, as you have given me your name.” 

“An oath! By Heavens!” said Norton, whose 
tense nerves seemed twisted and knotted. “But 
we forget love promises, why not as easily forget 
those, which marriage imposes? Imbecile! FoqI 


300 


l’americaine. 


that I was! I thought I was loved! I have surrounded 
myself with luxury, only to please my wife. I, who 
might live on bread and rice. I have coveted palaces 
and an insensate wealth, for whom? For this woman! 
Yes, for you — I the husband, a mere, working 
machine, and she — she — ” 

“I asked nothing of you, and I am grateful to 
you for all your devotion, Richard,” said Sylvia 
deliberately. 

He had resumed his nervous walk up and down 
the room, and, across the table, which separated 
them, Sylvia could see his huge frame, now outlined 
against the background of the sea, now plunged in 
the obscurity of the vast chamber. More and more 
excited, he was coming and going, occasionally 
stopping in his progress to speak to her in broken 
sentences: 

“Grateful! Ah, yes, without doubt. Grateful as 
you would be to a porter who looks after your bag- 
gage during a journey! It is not your gratitude I 
want, it is your love!” 

“I have loyally kept the promise I loyally gave 
you,” she said again. 

“Yes; and yet the idlers and the gossipers, it 
appears, know of your love for M. de Solis so well, 
that they talk openly of it, and just now, in a public 


L AMERICAINE. 


301 


Casino on the sea beach, an allusion to it has come to 
me like a blow in the face, like a stab to the heart.” 

“Do you hold me responsible for the idle talk of 
people whom I do not know and who do not know 
me?” 

“Besides,” said he, “ the idlers may tomorrow, if 
they like, speak freely of the American Norton and 
of the departure of himself and wife. For I have 
already given it out that we are going to leave 
France. We can await the steamer at Havre. There 
is no need to stay at Trouville any longer. Be so 
kind as to give the necessary orders — ” 

“Now?” she asked in astonishment. 

“At once; our berths are secured. They are the 
same we occupied on the Normandie in coming to 
France.” 

“ It is impossible for me to make my adieus to 
the few scattered friends who are here — •” 

“Your friends? Why, Eva will accompany us.” 

“Mrs. Montgomery?” 

“You will meet her some day again in America.” 

“It is folly, I tell you,” said Sylvia. “If this de- 
parture is not a sudden whim, if your caprice becomes 
a tyranny, then it is useless to insist. I shall not 

go-" 

She had summoned all her nervous resolution 


302 


L AMERICAINE. 


which she put into this refusal, and Norton knew the 
energy of this creature, ordinarily so frail and passive, 
too well not to fear that her decision would be final. 

“Nevertheless I shall be on my way in three days, 
and I pray you — I pray you, Mrs. Norton,” he said 
insistingly, “not to let me go alone.” 

“I did not ask to come to France. I will not 
leave France for no better reason than that some 
idler has taken the liberty to mention my name. 
Besides, so far as the Dicksons are concerned — you 
see I know who it is who have been making free with 
my name — to leave France now would be the same 
as a flight. They would believe that their calumny 
had reached a vital place and that they had forced 
me to a retreat. No, I will not go.” 

“Sylvia,” said Norton, and his face, a moment 
before ashy pale, now became purple. 

“Well?” she answered calmly. 

“You do not know me. You have always found 
me submissive to your caprices, humble as an infant 
before you. You imagine that I can renounce what 
I have willed to do, when my mind is really made 
up. You forget that during all my life I have 
accomplished all I set out to do. I am not romantic 
like M. de Solis. I am a man who knows his own 
mind and executes his will. Well, I swear to you, 


l’americaine. 


303 


Sylvia, that I do not wish you to stay another day 
at Trouville, and that you accompany me to America 
when I go.” 

The young woman for a moment looked at this 
colossus, whom she felt to be beside himself with 
fury, then slowly with an exasperating sweetness in 
her tone she answered: 

“Your will, when it becomes an insult, is power- 
less against mine. Powerless! You want to go away 
from France because it pleases you to be suspicious 
of me. Accuse me, insult me, but I shall not go!” 

Still menacingly he repeated as a moment before 
the loved name: 

“Sylvia!” 

Then pausing before the clear, calm, yet sad 
gaze of his wife, he exclaimed passionately: 

“Ah! no, no! You want to madden me to ex- 
tremities. Do you wish. me to believe all?” 

“All what? All that calumny has picked up, I 
know not where? Absurdities, or infamies?” 

“Well, yes, it is folly. Yes, it is absurd, I know 
it,” he said. “But I do not wish you to stay here. 
I am unjust, I am brutal, be it so. It is the Yankee 
in me. It is the savage coming to the surface. But 
after all, have I not given a proof of coolness which 
astonishes me? To think that with these hands — 


304 


LAMERI CAINE. 


and he showed his huge muscular, powerful hands 
— I did not strangle the backbiters who were sneer- 
ingly relating the adventures of the mistress of the 
Villa Normande. I was ready to spring upon them 
like a tiger, and I do not doubt I would have caused 
a great scandkl — a misfortune even — when this 
thought came to me, that a scandal was more to be. 
dreaded than the vilification, the calumnies of these 
heartless tale-bearers. In taking notice of the story 
I would have given it an unmerited importance. I 
would have given it a new impetus, instead of which 
I prefer to let it drag upon the earth like a collapsed 
balloon. But coolness is not my strong point. You 
must have noticed it, Sylvia. I feel as if I were 
suffocating. I have before me visions which 
madden me. You must understand me, Sylvia, you 
must excuse and pardon me.” 

He repeated in a sharp, commanding tone: 
“ You must follow me.” 

“It is then an order?” 

“An order or a prayer, it matters little.” 

“ It matters so much that I might have yielded 
to a prayer, but I shall not obey an order.” 

“ Never?” 

“ Never.” 

“Ah! miserable woman!” said Norton, his face 


l’americaine. 


305 


scarlet with anger. “And who shall prove to me 
that those wretches were not telling the truth and 
that you do not desire to stay here to be with your 
lover?” 

“ My lover! It is an infamy, and what you have 
just said is a lie,” cried Sylvia. 

“ He was here a moment ago. He fled like a 
guilty thing before my approach. Where is the lie? 
On my lips, or on yours? Did you not confess to 
me just now that you loved him? Yes or no?” 

“ It was not a confession, it was the truth,” she 
said, resuming her proud calm. 

“The truth. The truth of the past and the truth 
of to-day. It means that you love him always?” 

“Always! Yes, I shall love him always,” she said, 
drawing herself up to her full height; “and what 
then?” 

“You dare, oh, you dare,” Norton stammered 
chokingly. 

“I love him and yet you have lied none the less. 
I love him and yet the cravens you speak of have 
calumniated me. I love him and yet I am an 
honest woman.” 

He listened, wild with anger. He was afraid he 
should be tempted to spring upon and strangle her 

in the delirium of his rage. 

20 


3°6 


l’americaine. 


“An honest woman whose name is Norton,” he 
said. “Call Eva. Give your orders, for I tell you 
we are going to leave France.” 

As she did not move he stepped to the electric 
bell near the mirror and pressed upon the ivory 
button. 

“You can go if you like,” said Sylvia. “As for 
me, I shall remain.” 

She was leaning upon the table to keep from 
falling. Her face was livid and her lips trembled. 
Her eyes alone seemed to be living. 

“I am going,” said Norton, “and I shall take you 
with me.” 

“By force? That is possible. You could hand- 
cuff me, you know.” 

At this moment a domestic entered, followed 
by Dr. Fargeas, who came in with a sprightly air. 

On seeing him Norton made a sign to the valet, 
who withdrew. 

At the first glance the doctor divined that some 
sort of electric shock had just been produced between 
these two beings — moral storms have also their smell 
of sulphur — and going to Sylvia who was almost 
fainting he said: 

“What is the matter, madame? Well, what 
now?” 


L AMERICAINE. 


307 


N 


“Nothing, nothing, doctor,” she said. She tried 
to smile, but tottered. 

“How? Nothing! Why it is a crisis.” He looked 
to Norton for an explanation. 

“What is it?” he asked in a low tone. 

“ I start for Havre this evening, and for New 
York in three days,” answered Richard, coldly, “and 
Mrs. Norton refuses to accompany me.” 

“She refuses? And she is quite right to refuse. 
Do you want to kill her?” 

“To kill her?” repeated Norton. A sudden an- 
guish appeared in his voice and almost strangled him. 

Fargeas made Sylvia sit down, and quickly break- 
ing the neck off a bottle of nitrite of amyle, he 
poured the contents upon a handkerchief, which he 
asked her to respire. She thanked him with a look, 
while the doctor, turning to Norton, said: 

“Ah, that depends upon you. Her nerves are in 
such a state! If you love her ” 

“If I love her? What an irony,” thought Richard. 

The doctor continued: “You have confided the 
care of her health to my hands. Very well! A de- 
parture with a barometric depression, and the direc- 
tion of the wind announced in the weather bulletins 
to-day! Never! I am opposed to it.” 

“I kill her,” thought Norton. It seemed to him 


308 


l’americaine. 


that a great black chasm was yawning before him, 
and that he wanted to plunge into it, to bury himself, 
to disappear with that adored one who was cherishing 
in her heart the name and image of another. 

Suddenly into the silence of the villa there came 
a burst of noise as when the director of the theatre 
gives the signal to the orchestra. There was a chorus 
of shouts and laughter, and a whirlwind of gayety 
entered the rooms. A troop of people, led by Mrs. 
Montgomery, rushed forward, and similar to the far- 
andole of the Midi, unwound itself up the stairways 
and through the halls. The handsome Liliane was 
armed with a wand, striped in white and red, and 
was accompanied by her husband, red-faced and out 
of breath. Berneire gave his hand to Arabella, who 
was closely followed by the Colonel and Mrs. Dick- 
son, the little Jewess and her father, the big apop- 
lectic banker, and a crowd of other self-invited fools 
who came in the American fashion to make up this 
surprise party , an institution which recalled their dear 
America, and all were laughing, shouting and making 
the air ring with their forced gayety. 

“Hip, hip, hurrah! a surprise party!” shouted 
Liliane. “Let us make ourselves at home.” 

“To the piano, Arabella! to the piano,” said 
Liliane, as if commanding an assault. 


L AMERICAINE. 


309 


“Willingly/’ 

Miss Dickson took off her gloves, sat down 
to the instrument, while the colonel said to Norton: 

“What a pity! She has forgotten her violoncello.” 

This brusque, stunning invasion did not displease 
Fargeas. It brought to Sylvia a sudden reaction of 
which her nerves had need. While Mrs. Norton 
was trying to regain her self-possession, to smile at 
the irruption, to show a placid countenance to these 
rattle, brains, who by right of a fantastic conquest 
were taking possession of her home, Norton com- 
posed his features, feeling that the Dicksons had 
come, not only as idlers bent on amusement, but as 
spies. 

Eva, attracted by the noise, came in her turn to 
join the rollicking band. 

'“See our surprise party,” said Liliane, laughing, 
as Eva entered. 

“It is an American amusement,” added Made- 
moiselle Offenburger. “It ought to please you, Miss 
Eva. It is not equal to anthropology as a study but 
it is very droll — original!” 

Sylvia made an effort to appear cheerful, but she 
remained a little pale. 

At sight of her the colonel, with an affectation of 
interest, said to Dr. Fargeas: 


3io 


l’americaine. 


“But see, doctor, look at Mrs. Norton, how pale 
she is!” 

“What? Mrs. Norton?” said Richard-, coldly. 
“She is a little tired, that is all.” 

“It is nothing,” added Sylvia. 

“Come, come, Sylvia, let us have a little fun,” 
said the handsome Liliane;and raising her wand of 
command, her wand bestriped and beribboned, she 
cried joyously in her clear, musical voice: 

“Arabella, let us have ‘Milligan’s March.’ We 
will all join in. Hip, hip, hurrah!” 

Then while Miss Arabella played in crescendo 
the English air upon the piano, an air in which the 
notes seemed to leap, to hurry full of quivers and 
staccatos, Berniere and Mrs. Montgomery sang an 
accompaniment, stopping now and then to laugh. 
Miss Eva examined in turn the members of the 
party: The colonel who, with the gravity of a 
clergyman, was beating time, while his wife was 
wiping her face with her handkerchief; the little 
Offenburger, who was talking with her father — the 
latter imitating the movements of the bass drummer, 
while Montgomery was whispering in Norton’s ear. 
Then the glance of the young girl fell upon the 
sad face of Sylvia seated by Dr. Fargeas, who was 
gravely shaking his head. Eva herself was serious, 


LAMERI CAINE. 


311 

and her heart grew heavy at the sound of all this 
noise which she somehow thought had a false note, 
at this villa, where to-day for the first time she had 
wept— where she was conscious of something like 
the bitter perfume of tears; and sadly she said to 
herself: 

“If the Marchioness de Solis were here she would 
certainly say that all the American women are mad. 
“Yes, she would really say it.” 

In the meantime, Arabella was playing furiously 
upon the piano and Liliane, between two waves of 
her wand, said to Berniere: 

“We will pillage the buffets in a moment, for 
luncheon. To-day Sylvia is not the mistress here. 
Dispossession for the public amusement is justifiable. 
Hurrah for the surprise party!” 

“The mildew,” thought Eva. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Georges de Solis, in leaving the villa had, by 
mere chance, taken a course which lay through the 
less frequented streets. Mechanically he turned his 
steps toward the beach, indifferent to the gay med- 
ley of bright toilettes and many colored parasols, 
which made bright spots here and there on the 
sands. He followed the plank walk, still thinking 
of what he had just said, of what he had dared to 
say to Sylvia. 

He was stifling morally. Up to this moment his 
life had been bounded by his duties and a love. He 
had not abused his passion in expending it in ordi- 
nary caprices. It was still virgin, intact, and he 
wanted to employ it as a saving power in snatching 
this woman from a dull prison, from a slow but cer- 
tain death. 

Should he fly with her? Yes, since it was his 
destiny to be a wanderer, since the universe opened 
to him its infinite vistas. But Madame de Solis, his 
mother! Richard Norton, the husband. He would 
not think of them. He must banish them from his 
mind. He wanted only to see Sylvia. . He would 


l’americaine. 


313 


think only of her. A fever had mounted to his 
brain making him blind to all which was not Sylvia, 
to everything which was not his love. 

He walked for a long time in this state, stop- 
ping mechanically before the shooting gallery, 
seeming spellbound by the perforated targets; in 
reality seeing nothing and thinking of nothing but 
his love. He went home at last, and dined with the 
marchioness, who noticed that he was thoughtful 
and nervous. Toward dark, contrary to his habit, 
he prepared to go out again. 

“Are you ill?” asked his mother, as he was get- 
ting his hat and cane. 

“No; why do you ask?” 

“You are pale and you look sad and troubled.” 

“I am not sad; I am a little nervous. The ex- 
treme heat has been oppressive. The air from the 
sea will do me good.” 

He was visibly agitated. He had but one thought 
now. To realize this madness, about which he had 
spoken to Sylvia, as of a dream. A flight in 1891, 
an elopement as in the romantic period, would seem 
strange, almost ridiculous and not very fin de siecle. 
But explorers and seekers after the unknown are 
perhaps the last of the romantics. To brave danger, 
to fly in this mad brusque way pleased him. But 


314 


l’americaine. 


how should he arrange the details and time of the 
departure? 

And then, was she entirely willing? He had 
seen her tremble in listening to his impassioned 
words, thrill with the temptation of liberty and love. 
She still loved him, and it was because he had the 
sensation that she had remained faithful, and had 
reciprocated his love that he found in himself the 
audacity to carry out his insane project. He knew 
the consequence would be a rupture with the world. 
But would she have the same .boldness as he? 
Would not some reflection as to the consequences 
make her pause at the last moment? 

Unconsciously he had entered the Casino, feeling 
that his over-wrought nerves had need of the noise 
and movement of a restless crowd as a calming 
influence. 

The crowd was great. They were dancing in one 
of the halls. In another the gaming tables were 
arranged, and they were playing roulette. In pass- 
ing from the dancing hall to the gaming rooms, M. 
de Solis almost ran into the handsome Arabella 
Dickson, who was promenading, upon the arm of 
her father. Instinctively, the crowd parted before 
the admirable young woman and the gigantic, red- 
bearded American. Paul de Berniere was walking 


l’americaine. 


315 


behind them talking to a gentleman, whose style 
was very pure, very correct. He wore a white 
cravat with a diamond pin, and a gardenia at his 
button-hole. It was the artist, Harrison, the first 
husband of Mrs. Montgomery. It was an artist in 
the dress of a diplomat. He was bald, but had side 
whiskers of an interminable length. 

On seeing M. de Solis, Arabella uttered an ex- 
clamation of satisfaction. She stopped and held 
out her hand. She was delicious with her tawny 
hair drawn up from the neck. A little sailor hat of 
white straw was perched coquettishly upon her 
head. She wore a skirt and waist of some white 
material, the latter sitting so closely to her form 
that all the contours of bust, waist and hips were 
admirably shown. 

“M. de Solis,” she said, “we were so sorry not to 
see you at the Villa Norton this evening.” 

“Very sorry indeed,” said the colonel. 

“It was a charming surprise party gotten up by 
Mrs. Montgomery. She understands these little 
parties, does she not, Mr. Harrison?” 

“Yes, she understands how to manage such 
things!” replied the first husband, indifferently. 

“I had hoped to see you, Monsieur de Solis,” 
added Arabella, smiling. 


3 16 


l’americaine. 


“I go out very little, mademoiselle. It is by 
chance that I am here now.” 

The colonel nodded his head and stroked his 
long beard, saying: 

“You go out very little. You do not come to the 
Casino very often, but — ” 

He stopped, for there was something in the eye 
of M. de Solis which warned him not to proceed. 

All the contempt which Georges felt in his heart 
for the calumny which had been uttered against 
Sylvia rose within him and blazed in his eye, and 
with feverish eagerness he seized the occasion for 
an explanation which this encounter with the colonel 
offered. 

“I would like a word with you, colonel.” 

“Willingly, my dear marquis.” 

“I should like to speak with you alone, with your 
permission, mademoiselle.” 

Arabella smiled assent. 

“M. de Berniere will serve me as cavalier,” she 
said gaily. 

The colonel, still stroking his beard, followed 
Georges into one of the corners of the room, where 
the good bourgeois were sweltering in upholstered 
arm-chairs. 

“Sir,” said the young man, coming directly to 


l’americaine. 


317 


the matter in hand, “you have been making remarks 
which do not please me, about myself and another 
person whom neither you nor I have the right to 
name.” 

“Indeed!” said the colonel, straightening his 
gigantic form to its full height. 

“I say that you have slandered the most respect- 
able of women and you have associated my name 
with hers in your calumnies. Do you know what 
we call such an act in French?” 

“I know the French language,” said the colonel 
coldly, “and I will spare you the trouble of consult- 
ing your dictionary. I have said nothing which was 
not germane to a conversation of the seaside. I 
may have spoken — in the interest of the health of a 
person who appears to be very dear to you — of too 
frequent walks along the beach— at night — when one 
was ill ” 

“Well, sir,” interrupted Solis, “in the future I - 
forbid you to interfere with me or the person to 
whom you have just made allusion.” 

“You forbid — me?” said the American, scan- 
ning the words and accenting each syllable strongly. 

“I have said so.” 

“By what right, sir?” 

The colonel's attitude was so fiercely proud that 


318 


l’americaine. 


one might have supposed his courage due in part to 
a plentiful admixture of cocktails. 

“By what right?” said M. de Solis. “By the right 
I assume.” 

“Oh,”said the colonel, slowly, “my countrywoman 
has smitten you terribly. It is easy to understand, 
though. She is devilishly pretty.” 

He lifted his hand to stroke his beard with a 
mechanical gesture. Georges seized his wrist, and 
with his eyes close to the colonel’s he said: 

“Silence, sir! You are a coward!” 

“I hope you are not one, sir,” replied the colonel, 
disengaging himself. 

“At your orders, sir!” 

“Very good, sir,” answered Dickson, rejoining 
his daughter, who was talking with Berniere. The 
latter had not lost a movement in the conversation 
between Solis and the colonel, and he suspected 
that something unpleasant, and possibly serious, had 
passed between them. 

“Well,” said the colonel to himself, as he walked 
back to where his daughter was waiting for him, 
“Arabella may have some difficulty in catching the 
marquis after all this; but we shall see. Who 
knows ?” 

“Has there been a quarrel between you and the 


l’americaine. 


319 


colonel?” Berniere asked, as soon as he was alone 
with Georges. 

“Oh, a mere nothing.” 

“A provocation?” 

“No, an explanation,” said Solis. “I shall count 
on you, for there may be consequences. Ah! you 
must notify Dr. Fargeas. And not a word to my 
mother! I will go and embrace her. Poor woman!” 

“The devil!” said Berniere, trying to turn the 
matter into a pleasantry. “You are expeditious; 
you do not intend to lose any time, evidently. You 
are like an express train with all steam on.” 

The evening at Villa Norton was silent and 
sad, and the next day was to be more anxious still. 
Whether Colonel Dickson had revealed at the Casino 
the secret of his altercation with M. de Solis, whether 
in conferring with his friends, the artist Harrison, 
before all others, he had not imposed silence upon 
his witnesses, or, finally, whether he felt an interest 
in hearing his name coupled with that of the mar- 
quis, at all events the incident of the evening before 
was the gossip of the beach next morning. 

The echoes of this rumor penetrated even to the 
Villa Norton. Mrs. Montgomery had gone there, 
officious and nervous, very early, and when Dr. Far- 
geas arrived to learn of Sylvia’s health he experi- 


320 


l’americaine. 


enced a singular sensation. It seemed to him that 
the very furniture had an unaccustomed dramatic 
air. Inanimate things have malice; they also have 
in some sort the power of divination. 

The doctor took care not to question Mrs. Nor- 
ton, whom he found very nervous, but more firm, as 
if she had made an effort to control herself. Norton 
was absent, and the doctor limited himself to a pre- 
scription harmless enough; and, as he descended 
from Sylvia’s room, he met Miss Meredith at the foot 
of the staircase. She, also, seemed visibly anxious. 

“Well, doctor? And Sylvia — how is she?” asked 
Eva. 

“Oh, nervous as usual, but evidently more ener- 
getic than yesterday. I should say that she had 
been braced up by some excitement.” 

“An excitement?” queried the girl. “I do not 
know what excitement. There is nothing new here.” 

“Nothing!” 

He looked at Eva, who was pale, and shook his 
head in a manner at once knowing and indulgent. 

“I would never advise you to try to play a com- 
edy, my dear child. You do not know how.” 

“Why, doctor ” 

“If Mrs. Norton is — how shall I express it — 
braced up, you are very nervous.” 


l’americaine. 


321 


“And why should I be nervous?” asked Eva, 
tossing her pretty brown head and trying to smile. 

“Oh! as to that, I do not know, I am sure,” said 
Fargeas. He added kindly: “Perhaps you have 
heard of the rumored duel between Colonel Dickson 
and M. de Solis.” 

And, as Eva started involuntarily, he added: 

“There now, don’t be disturbed. M. de Solis has 
had .many such affairs. He is a master with the 
sword and pistol, too. There is nothing to fear for 
him.” 

Eva answered slowly: 

“Who told you that I fear anything on M. de 
Solis’ account?” 

“Eh? What!” exclaimed the doctor. After a 
moment’s silence he said: “Well, let us suppose I 
was mistaken. Perhaps, then, it is Colonel Dickson 
in whom you are interested?” 

There was a shrug of Eva’s shoulders, accompa- 
nied by a gesture expressive of a wish merging into 
a threat, as she answered: 

“The colonel! the colonel! Ah, if one could only 
have his just deserts, the colonel ” 

“Very good,” said the doctor. “It is as I sup- 
posed.” 

He was sure now that she was anxious about the 

21 


322 


L AM ERI CAINE. 


marquis. Poor little one! He now noticed for the 
first time that she was dressed for going out, even to 
the hat which crowned her luxuriant brown hair. 
He asked if she would accompany him. 

“Yes, with pleasure, doctor.” She had need of 
air, of movement. She wanted to walk, to tire her- 
self, to exercise her nerves. In walking toward the 
city the doctor watched her out of the corner of his 
eye, pale, deliciously beautiful. Suddenly he noticed 
her blush very red, and she cried, on seeing some 
one approaching them in the distance: 

“ M. de Solis!” 

When they came up with Georges, the doctor 
held out his hand sayin 

“ Well, my dear marquis, I congratulate you.” 

“On what?” asked Solis, who had saluted Eva. 

“Why, they are talking of nothing else — of your 
meeting with Colonel Dickson.” 

“ I have had no meeting with Colonel Dickson.” 

“ Then — that duel — is it over with?” asked Eva, 
hesitating. 

“ Pretty nearly,” said Georges. 

“You will not fight?” 

A sign from the doctor made Georges under- 
stand that he must deny everything. 


l’americaine. 


323 


“There will be no duel, mademoiselle,” he said 
smiling. “Everything has been arranged.” 

“ Oh! how glad I am. I was so troubled.” 

“And yet a moment ago, you told me that you 
hadn’t the shadow of an interest — ” 

“ Oh! that was a moment ago,” she said smiling 
and blushing. 

Fargeas took her hands in a fatherly manner. 

“ I toldyou, my dear child, you could never, never 
play comedy. Good-bye now, mademoiselle. My 
visits to my patients may be of little utility, but they 
must be made all the same.” 

Bowing to M. de Solis, the old doctor went off in 
the direction of the city, leaving Eva and the mar- 
quis talking in the bright morning air, within a few 
steps of the beach. 

The young girl was looking at the marquis with 
an air of serene, happy content. 

“Do you know that I am very happy?” she said. 
“I think a duel is so absurd. And when I think that 
Colonel Dickson, who is really redoubtable, might. 
It was he, was it not, who refused the duel?” 

“ You may be assured, mademoiselle, that it was 
not I,” answered Georges. 

“According to that he has done well. I have 
been told that he accomplished wonders during the 


324 


l’americaine. 


war of secession; and then in the Indian wars, also. 
Yes, with Buffalo Bill. He was a hero, it appears. 
But I doubted it a little, I assure you. I do not 
know why,” she said, laughing, “but I doubted it. 
Now, however, I doubt it no longer.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because a man who has the colonel’s terrible 
reputation, and who does not hesitate to recognize 
his faults, is truly an excellent man. In my opinion 
Colonel Dickson has to-day given proof of loyalty. 
He has acknowledged his wrong, has he not, Mon- 
sieur de Solis?” 

“Assuredly!” 

“It was, of course, villainous to accuse Sylvia, 
who is goodness and honor personified. Oh! you see 
that I know all; and as I know that the colonel on 
leaving you last evening at the shooting gallery, 
before everybody broke any number of plaster dolls, 
you can imagine in what a state of terror I passed 
the night. Do I bore you, talking here in the open 
air, as the painters say? I am not making you lose 
your time, am I?” 

“Oh! mademoiselle!” 

“So much the better then. You will have to 
endure me a little longer. You have given me 
enough anxiety. You will think me absurd, I dare 


l’americaine. 


325 


say. An American girl ought not, you think, to have 
the subtle sensibilities of the French woman. Well, 
I could not help it. I could see you there, stand- 
ing before Colonel Dickson’s pistol — ” 

“And already reduced to the state of one of the 
shattered plaster dolls?” said the marquis. “But I 
can defend myself better than the poor plaster dolls. 
Besides, it is my belief that in an encounter of this 
kind, right is always triumphant over wrong.” 

“Oh, that is only a superstition.” 

“Better than that, it is a conviction.” 

“Conviction, then, is an excellent thing when it is 
backed by a good deal of skill. At all events you 
gave me a great deal of anxiety.” 

She certainly was charming. Her joyous chatter, 
her youthful frankness, the clear, honest look she 
fixed upon him, this cordiality of comradeship, 
troubled or rather attracted Solis, and he looked at 
her tenderly, a little astonished, as one might sud- 
denly become interested in a landscape unnoticed 
before. 

“ I would like,” he said, “to have a better right to 
merit your anxiety on my account.” 

“How a better right? Do you mean that you 
would like to run other and greater dangers? To 


326 


l’americaine. 


what good end, since the result would be the same? 
I am practical, you see.” 

She was walking by his side now, her handsome 
dark face set off by a feverish flush, and the wind 
blowing upon her brow lifted and disarranged the 
soft curling masses of her hair, which Georges had 
not before remarked, and which gave her a charm- 
ing air of coquetry. 

It was a pleasure to him to have this child speak 
to him, and turning to her he said: 

“Then, if Col. Dickson had treated me as he did 
the little plaster dolls in the shooting gallery, it 
would have been disagreeable to you?” 

“I have told you how I felt. You are not going 
to ask me to say it over again? You are no longer 
interesting, now, not at all.” 

“Then to merit your consideration, Miss Eva, one 
should always be exposed to some danger.” 

She shook her head prettily. 

“Ah! no. It is not necessary that people should 
be in extraordinary situations to merit my esteem 
and love. Moreover I am the least romantic person 
you can find, and the idea never came into my head 
that in carrying supplies to the poor Ruaud family — 
that in a mere errand of charity — any one could dis- 


cover a romance. 


l’americaine. 


32; 


“The world is uncharitable,” said M. de Solis 
sadly. “It must have its daily rations of calumny.” 

Eva pouted her lips and said firmly: 

“Oh! the world— the world. The world is not 
after all the whole world. You are wrong in paying 
too much attention to it. For my part, the world may 
say what it likes. It matters little to me whether 
the world approves me or not, provided that in my 
own conscience and soul I am satisfied with my con- 
duct.” 

“But if Colonel Dickson had said of you- ” 

“What he said of Sylvia? Well, I should have 
begged you to let him go on saying it. Rather than 
that we ” 

She stopped and Georges completed her thought. 

“Rather thafi that I should have the right to 
defend you, you mean.” 

“That is still a question. An honest man always 
has the right to defend an honest woman whose 
character has been assailed.” 

“Even where a young girl is concerned?” 

“Especially when it is a question of a young girl. 
But if I were concerned it would be an entirely dif- 
ferent matter. As what people might say of me is 
of infinitely less importance than the existence of 
some one for whom I may have a — friendship. I 


328 


l’americaine. 


should have conjured you to let Dickson and Miss 
Dickson and all the Dicksons in the world alone. 
What would have given me anxiety would have been, 
not at all a word more or less absurd, or more or less 
malicious; it would have been the pistol shot of the 
redoubtable colonel. Oh! I am aware that I am 
trampling upon your warlike prejudices. Observe 
that I love, I honor, I admire courage, but I like to 
see it properly employed.” 

Georges listened with increasing surprise, much 
interested, charmed even by this frankness, this 
exquisite contempt for prejudices, these clear ideas 
of a girlish brain; and turning toward her he said: 

“You are entirely original, Miss Eva.” 

“You may call it eccentric; don’t be too modest.” 

“And what do you call courage well employed?” 

In her turn, she now looked at him, surprised at 
the curiosity she had suddenly awakened in him. 

And then she spoke from the fullness of her 
heart, and he read as in an unknown book, in this 
soul as clear as the waters of a mountain brook. 

“What is courage well employed? I do not 
know exactly. It cannot be defined. The man 
who saves another’s life, or who defends his country, 
or who devotes his whole existence to a generous or 
useful end. Am I clear? Such a one performs an 


l’americaine. 


329 


act of courage. Courage it is when you go into the 
rice-fields of Asia to seek what? I do not know, but 
some truth, some fact, the discovery of which is to 
benefit the race — to initiate some progress.” 

She stopped; her face now became serious. 

‘‘Perhaps I ought to say to forget rather than to 
seek.” 

Solis felt himself affected by the sound of her 
voice which had suddenly become sad. 

“Forget? Forget what?” 

“Well, good-bye, Monsieur de Solis. I am so 
glad to know that this unhappy affair is ended.” 

She extended her hand as if to take her leave, 
but Georges insisted upon an explanation of her 
last words. 

“You said that in traveling, I was trying perhaps 
to forget something. Forget what? What do you 
mean?” 

Her eyes met his frankly and fearlessly. “Oh, I 
never have any reserves when the secret in question 
relates only to myself. But it is a matter of the 
secret of another person.” 

“A secret? What secret?” Instinctively his 
hand sought to retain the young girl. 

“You see, Monsieur de Solis,” she said, trying to 
laugh, “that I am joking. Let me go. There is no 


330 


l’americaine. 


secret. It is nothing. Thank God, there will be no 
duel.” 

“And suppose there should be one?” said the 
marquis. 

All the gayety of the poor child vanished. She 
became as pale as when Dr. Fargeas had questioned 
her a little while before. 

Then she said in a sharp voice: “What you said 
to me a moment ago, before the doctor — look at me 
— is not true. You' are going to fight with Dickson?” 

“Miss Eva, I pray you, for my sake and for — 
hers.” 

“Ah, yes! Sylvia! Always Sylvia. And you 
let me believe that all was over, that I might reas- 
sure myself. You told me so. Ah! that was not 
right. If you knew how much suffering you have 
caused me.” 

In her eyes there were tears which she tried to 
hide, and she leaned upon her umbrella to keep 
from falling. He was stupefied. He tried to take 
her in his arms, fearing she would fall, but she had 
already dried her eyes. 

“Oh! It is nothing. Nothing at all! I beg your 
pardon for this little attack. Ridiculous, and espec- 
ially in the middle of the street. You see it has 
passed. Why, what is the matter with you?” 


l’americaine. 


331 


“Nothing! Only when I look at you I do not 
seem to know you.” 

“Oh! you see I have nerves also, like Sylvia. 
Good-bye.” 

He stopped her, feeling that he had given her 
pain. 

“I ask' your pardon, mademoiselle.” 

“Oh! I pardon you. You did not know.” 

She did not this time give him her hand as she 

had done before, but went away rapidly, walking 

* 

fast, feeling that she was stifling. On arriving at 
the villa she tried to compose her face. When she 
entered she found herself face to face with Richard 
Norton, who was about to go out. 

Norton was cold, pale, and had in his look an 
expression of melancholy which was not habitual to 
him. Eva was struck with the air of kindly sadness, 
with which he welcomed her. Whence came this 
expression? Why was his face so anxious? Norton 
felt that the news of the duel between M. de Solis 
and Colonel Dickson might alarm the young girl, 
but he wished neither to question her nor to give 
explanations. He contented himself with a few 
vague phrases, spoken in a paternal tone, and rec- 
ommended, as Dr. Fargeas might have done in the 
case of Sylvia, a little repose. 


332 


l’americaine. 


Eva went up to her room, trying to compose her- 
self. 

Norton had made up his mind that he would go 
straight to Georges de Solis. He wished to talk 
with the man who had been his friend. Should he 
find the marquis? 

Georges had reached his lodgings, repeating to 
himself what Eva had just said to him. He felt, in 
recalling the words of the little American, a pecul- 
iar, a bizarre pleasure. The frankness of the young 
girl had charmed him. It was not that he hesitated, 
no — the image of Sylvia was always present in his 
thought — but he was troubled. He would have 
liked, out of pure curiosity, doubtless, as Berniere 
might have done out of dilettantism, to know this 
child’s heart to the bottom. She was but a child, 
but so determined, so exquisite with her little bursts 
of heroic resolution. 

Then he began again to think of Sylvia, of that 
mad but irresistible idea of flight which he had 
poured into the ear of his adored one. A folly — 
be it so. Is not what we call insanity sometimes 
supreme wisdom? It seemed to him that an inner 
voice — his own conscience — counseled him to take 
this step. 

“Let us depart, fly, go far away from the world,” 


l’amf.ricaine. 


333 


it said. “Let us brave its laws and let us make for 
ourselves a new law.” These are the reasons which 
the folly of love eternally gives as its justification. 
Exquisite words which have been repeated since the 
world was, and shall be as long as hearts are weak. 
Charming, commonplaces with which the hearts of 
women are caught, as if a certain poetry of emanci- 
pation were the preface to the fall. As long as the 
world lasts and creates obstacles to human passions, 
the same aspirations, the same refrains will lead to 
the same deceptions. It is an air which each one 
can adapt to his own voice. 

Georges, seated in his study, littered with maps 
and books, had commenced, destroyed, then recom- 
menced a letter to Sylvia, in which he wish to detail 
more precisely than when he had spoken to her, his 
plans of flight. His mother, who had entered to 
speak with him, had surprised him writing feverishly 
something which he quickly concealed under a 
blotting-pad at her approach. 

For a moment the marchioness was tempted to 
question her son. To whom was he writing? Why 
did he conceal what he was writing? 

But these indiscreet questions would doubtless 
have received no answers. Too much a woman not 


334 


l’americaine. 


to partly divine, the marchioness was sure that this 
stealthy letter was destined for Mrs. No'rton. 

“What folly can he be meditating?” she thought. 

She would, perhaps, have asked what it was, if a 
servant had not entered to announce Mr. Richard 
Norton, who wished to speak with M. de Solis. 

The mother suddenly became anxious, looked at 
her son, who calmly responded with a smile, as if to 
reassure Madame de Solis. 

“I am very glad. Show him in.” 

“I am going to leave you,” said the marchioness, 
beforeNorton entered. “Butwhy does hecomehere?” 

“A visit. He has the right to visit me.” 

“Promise me that you will repeat to me all that 
he says.” 

“What do you think he will say to me?” 

“Promise me,” said the marchioness, firmly. 

“Oh! willingly I promise you.” 

Richard appeared a little annoyed on seeing 
Madame de Solis, but she soon took her leave, not 
wishing to be indiscreet; and confident in the prom- 
ise of her son, she had the courage to return to her 
chamber without trying to learn from Norton’s first 
words whether he came as friend or enemy. 

However, the first minute of conversation would 
have enlightened her. 


l’americaine. 


335 


When the marchioness had left the room, Norton 
looked at Georges, who, seated before the table, 
pointed to an arm-chair, in which seating himself, 
the American began, coldly: 

“You have guessed why I come?” - 

“No,” said the marquis. 

“ You are going to fight this evening”; he took 
out his watch. “You are going to fight in five hours 
with Colonel Dickson.” 

“ Yes,” said M. de Solis. 

“The meeting was to have taken place this 
morning, but was put off at the instance of the 
colonel’s seconds.” 

“You are well informed,” said Solis, simply. 

“That is as much as to say,” said Norton, impas- 
sively, “that I also know the cause of the duel.” 

Georges looked at the American. Under their 
beetling brows the gray eyes of the Yankee betrayed 
a feverish flash, although he was evidently trying to 
remain calm. 

“If you know the cause of this meeting,” re- 
sponded the marquis, “you know there is nothing 
dishonorable in it, either for myself or for the per- 
son I am defending.” 

“ And in not naming her to me, you show that 
you have no right to defend her.” 


336 


l’americaine. 


The marquis tried to smile. 

“An honest man always has the right to take the 
defense of slandered innocence.” 

“Not when, in undertaking to defend her, he 
exposes her to a new calumny,” said Norton. 

Seated opposite each other, the glances of 
the two men crossed as their swords might have 
done; and M. de Solis, forcing himself to remain 
calm before the husband demanding his rights, 
replied: 

“I went straight to her as soon as I heard this 
calumny.” 

“Well,” said Norton, “in fighting for an honest 
woman, you compromise her. I alone have the right 
to defend her honor, which is mine as well.” 

“You mean ” 

“That you must not fight with Colonel Dickson, 
and that, the colonel having insulted Mrs. Norton, 
it is to me that he must render an account for the 
outrage.” 

M. de Solis remained silent for a moment, and 
then with a slight smile which seemed to mark the 
impossibility of this substitution of adversaries he 
said: 

“I have sent my seconds to the colonel. The 
meeting is decided upon. The hour is fixed. I can- 


l’americaine. 


33 7 


not, under any pretext, afford not to be at a rendez- 
vous which I myself have demanded.” 

“And yet,” answered Richard vehemently, “ for 
the honor of her of whom we have been speaking, 
it is imperative that Colonel Dickson’s adversary 
should be the husband of Mrs. Norton.” 

“Why?” 

“You do not understand,” said Norton brusquely. 
“We are here as two men who can and must speak 
the truth to each other. You would fight for Sylvia 
because you love her. I intend to fight for her be- 
cause I intend that she shall be respected. The 
situation is clear, I think.” 

Georges had become very pale, “It is because I 
intended she should be respected that I forbade 
Colonel Dickson — ” 

“And by what right?” said Norton. “I am still her 
husband. It is my privilege alone to take charge of 
her who bears my name, and as long as she bears that 
name I shall claim that privilege. And it is the best 
means, I think, to silence the tongue of the slanderer.” 

“As long as she shall bear your name?” 

“Yes.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Nothing — nothing which can be for you a hope, 

or forhera deliverance.” 

22 


338 


L AMERICAINE. 


Norton,” said M. de Solis in a tone in which 
there was an echo of the old-time friendship. 

The American looked at him with his haggard 
eyes and in a hoarse voice he said: 

“Do not question me. Do not utter another 
word!” 

“But, my friend ” 

The word “friend” caused a cloud to pass over 
Norton’s face. 

“Be silent in the name of that friendship which, 
it appears, has not prevented you from robbing me 
of the affection of her whom I love better than any- 
thing else in the world.” 

“Robbing?” exclaimed the marquis, rising sud- 
denly. 

“Taking away, carrying off, what matters it what 
word is employed? The fact is, that suffering sits at 
my fireside; there is desolation and deception in this 
heart ready to burst.” He struck his breast as he 
spoke with his clenched hands. “It means pain, tort- 
ure, separation, divorce! Oh! God!” 

“Divorce.” The word was like a clap of thunder. 
Divorce? Georges had not thought of it. Divorce? 
He, who was dreaming of liberty, had not thought of 
the one and only means to attain it, and it was Nor- 
ton who brought him the suggestion. Almost under 


L AMERICAINE. 


339 


the hand of the loyal man, concealed under the 
blotting pad, there was the letter, the guilty letter, 
destined for the wife, in which he had said: “Let us 
emancipate ourselves, let us be free, let us fly.” 

“You think, perhaps,” continued Norton with an 
accent of suffering, “that you love her whom you 
once met, and who pleased you. Not so! I will tell 
you what it is to really love. It is to live solely for 
one loved creature, knowing that the existence 
which she is sharing with you is torturing, is killing 
her. It is to give her back the liberty, which our 
laws permit, and then to carry with you through 
life, for consolation, the memory and the joy of the 
sacrifice. That is true affection, true love, true 
devotio # n. The rest is desire— or empty phrases.” 

“Norton ” 

“You wish to fight with Colonel Dickson because 
he has insulted her. I, more than he, have calum- 
niated her. I have cast into her very teeth ” 

He paused. 

“Ah! I was mad. But my anger overmastered 
me. And then the suspicion ” 

“The suspicion?” 

“Yes,” answered Norton frankly. “I suspected 
you. I accused you! And why should I not have 
accused you? But yet, you were not so vile, I am 


340 


l’americaine. 


certain, being my friend, as to take away, with the 
peace of my fireside, the honor of my name. I am 
sure you would not have done that.” 

A vague, rapid gesture was the only response of 
the young man. He could not utter a word. The 
thought of the infamous letter was plunging the 
steel into his heart. 

Richard went on: 

“But knowing that in her heart she still kept 
green a memory of the past, you have had the 
vanity to see if it were really dead; if it could not be 
endowed with new life; if this woman did not still 
remember your name. You have blown your breath 
upon the half extinguished embers of that love, and 
for what purpose? That Sylvia’s heart, which had 
come to me so slowly, touched by the devotion of a 
whole life which I had given her, I, who could not 
inspire her with the passion born in an hour — you 
have done this, that her heart should be alienated 
from me; that I should become jealous, and finally 
mad enough to suspect and threaten my wife. 
And what does all this matter to you? You are 
only playing a role! What is a friendship, even 
that of a brother, compared with the love for a 
woman, even though it date but from yesterday? 
Ah! Let the husband suffer! Let him weep; it is 


l’americaine. 


341 


his lot. Let the lover invade the home and destroy 
the fireside! I love with all my soul, and I have the 
right, it seems to me, to be loved.” 

“I swear to you,” said Solis. 

“You have inspired her with a passion, have you 
not?” interrupted Nbrton, drawing himself up to 
his full height. “Passion explains all, answers for 
everything. Be it so! Love this woman since she 
loves you, but I repeat to you, and I have the right, 
and it is my duty to repeat it to you, as long as you 
can in the eyes of the world defend her only at the 
expense of a blight upon her name, leave the duty 
of defending her to him who is her protector in the 
eyes of the law.” 

“Mrs. Norton is the purest woman in the world,” 
cried Solis. 

“For that reason I want no one to interfere in 
the defense of her honesty. That must be my duty 
and mine alone.” 

“Once for all, you insist upon this?” 

“I insist,” said Norton, “and I say again distinctly 
that it is to me and to me alone that Colonel Dick- 
son must account for his insulting utterances. The 
world will not have to ask, in that case, how it hap- 
pens that Mrs. Norton, who has a husband to defend 
her, must depend upon a stranger for this service.” 


342 


l’americaine. 


“A stranger who venerates her!” 

“Speak the whole truth — a stranger who loves 
her. And this other truth, namely, that the world, 
our world, this famous world which creates opinion 
in France, would in that case suspect her, brand 
her, and she would be ruined.” 

“I cannot make an apology to Colonel Dickson,” 
said the marquis firmly. 

“You can fight him in a week from now, upon 
any pretext you may see fit to make, if the colonel 
after our meeting is then in a condition to fight. 
But this evening the colonel will find me upon the 
field. Montgomery will see to that.” 

’ “That is your determination?” said Solis. 

“It is my command,” answered Norton. 

“And now?” The marquis wanted to hold out 
his hand to this man, to beg his pardon, to vie in 
generosity with this iron king, this man of dollars, 
of figures, of business, of herculean labors, yet more 
chivalrous than a nobleman in his manly sacrifice, 
in the stifling of his love. He, Georges de Solis, the 
bearer of a knightly name, had thought of eloping 
with Sylvia, and Norton gave her to him. Divorce! 
Norton was sacrificing himself for her. 

“And now,” answered Norton coldly, “I have 
nothing mere to say to you,” 


l’americaine. 


343 


He went out before M. de Solis found the cour- 
age to say a word. He stood silent and self-ac- 
cused, listening to the slow, heavy footsteps of 
Norton as he strode down the stairway. 

When the marchioness, who, alone, had been 
thinking of stories from the police courts, in which 
the injured husband, a.rmed with a revolver — the 
American revolver, another form of mildew — sud- 
denly appears between the wife and the lover — 
when Madame de Solis, uneasy for the result of the 
interview, re-entered her son’s room, she asked: 

“Well?” 

“Well,” answered Solis, “Richard Norton is the 
most loyal of men.” 

And the marchioness noticed that Georges had 
been burning a paper in the flame of a candle which 
was still lighted, and the cinders were floating about 
the candlestick like the wings of consumed butter- 
flies. 


CHAPTER XII. 


After his interview with M. de Solis, Richard 
Norton wanted to see Sylvia. His decision had 
been made the evening before. He had loved this 
woman too well to become her executioner, and since 
Dr. Fargeas was inflexible, he would leave her in 
France. He alone would take his place on the 
Normandie. He wanted to show Mrs. Norton how 
much he loved her. 

Sylvia was just putting the last touches to her 
toilette when he announced himself. She was putting 
on her hat, and her maid, whom she dismissed on 
seeing Richard enter, was handing her her gloves. 

“You are going out?” he said. 

“I was about to follow Dr. Fargeas’ recommenda- 
tion to take the air.” 

“I regret to delay your walk, but I want to speak 
with you, Sylvia. I will not be long. I must ex- 
plain myself entirely, coldly. It is an explanation 
quite necessary to our common dignity, our common 
peace of mind.” 

Sylvia took off her hat and sat down, facing 
Norton. 


344 


L AMERICAINE. 


345 


“You will have leisure to make your explanations, 
as you call them. I was going among the fisher 
people, to that poor hut where, it seems, I was seen 
the other day. It would not have been Eva this 
time, but njyself whom they could have followed 
and spied upon in all reality. But I have changed 
my plan; I shall not go.” 

“Would you like me to send to these poor people 
what you intended to take?” 

“No; little Francis will come in a few moments if 
he does not see me. I have given him the permission. 
I was late. He is probably already on his way.” 

There was on Norton’s lips a sad smile, and in a 
voice calm, almost sweet, though it was evident that 
he was making a strong effort to master an inner 
emotion which well nigh betrayed itself in spite of 
him, he said, looking at her with infinite tenderness: 

“You are distressed about people who are suffer- 
ing from poverty and you are right. I know nothing 
more lugubrious. But there are other sufferings 
which merit a little pity.” 

“I, who know so well what it is to suffer, can have 
pity for all sorts of suffering,” she answered. 

“Then you ought to understand what the pain of 
jealousy is and to what lengths it impels a being who 
loves.” 


346 


l’americaine. 


There was a tone of remorse in his words, an ex- 
cuse for his late violence. But Sylvia’s moral wound 
was so recent and her suffering had been so intense 
that she could not pardon him. 

“I do not easily admit,” she said bitterly, “that 
jealousy can justify a thinking being in outraging 
and threatening another as you have outraged and 
menaced me.” 

Norton was mechanically twisting the point of 
his red beard. 

“You are right in talking to me with this frank- 
ness. I wanted to talk to you about these same out- 
rages and threats.” 

“Again?” 

He shook his head with the air of one tired, 
resigned. 

“Look at me, Sylvia! Am I the same man as yes- 
terday? I have thought, reflected much. I have 
lived over again in a few hours, my whole life. Be- 
side myself with rage, I was capable of carrying you 
off as a prey to America, whither I have too long 
delayed my return — on your account — and where I 
soon intend to go.” 

A movement of impatience escaped Sylvia. 

He went on: “You will notice that I no longer 
speak of your going with me, No, I should not ask 


l’americaine. 


347 


you to follow me, even were Dr. Fargeas to assure 
me that you have no further need of his care. You 
do not thank me? Well, I do not blame you. You 
see I have reflected deeply.” 

“Indeed,” she said with astonishment, “I do not 
recognize you;” and she gazed at him with her hand- 
some deep eyes. 

He replied, not without a little pride: “You 
should rather say that you do recognize me! That 
would be more just. I thought I had taught you to 
esteem my devotion before giving you cause to 
dread my anger, the explosion of which, I repeat 
to you, I deeply regret.” 

“You are right,” said Sylvia. “I ought never to 
have forgotten your past kindness. I beg your 
pardon.” 

“You would never suspect, I am sure, the reso- 
lution I have taken after the long and bitter reflec- 
tions of these last hours. You do not love me, 
Sylvia. I do not believe that you ever did love me.” 

“I do not — ” 

He interrupted her quickly: “Oh! if I am no 
•longer angry, neither have we reached the stage 
when studied politeness is in order. You obeyed 
your father in marrying me; your heart was in the 
keeping of another.” 


348 


L AMERICAJNE. 


She met her husband’s look with her clear eyes 
and answered with the frank sincere accent of an 
honest woman: 

“When I married you I thought of no one else, 
hoping that my new life would never bring regrets 
and certain that I would keep always, loyally, the 
oath I then took.” 

“Yes,” said Norton. 

And as if out of the depths of the past a far-off 
voice, a voice ironically cruel, had repeated to him 
the words of the marriage vow, he now repeated it 
slowly with a voice at times broken — that oath they 
had taken under the bell of roses: “I swear to be 
faithful to him whom I have taken, in good as well 
as in evil report, in health as in sickness, in poverty 
as in riches.” 

Resuming, he said: “You have kept your oath, 
Sylvia. In accusing you I have been unworthy of 
myself and of you. I who swore to give you abso- 
lute happiness. I have /not kept my oath. I have 
not been able to do so.” 

Sylvia did not understand him, but all her pre- 
conceived notions of fairness revolted instinctively 
against the accusation which this man brought’ 
against himself. She had a sudden impulse to pro- 
test, which he quickly repressed by a gesture, con- 


L AMERICAINE. 


349 


tinuing his confession in a cold, firm, saddened tone. 
“God is my witness that I have done all in my 
power to make you happy. I have had no other 
ambition. I know very well that I was never a hero 
of romance, and that the existence I offered you 
was, for a nature like yours, a little monotonous, a 
little severe. But what could I do? I have so many 
things in my head. I have swarms of human beings 
depending upon me, and who live by me. And be- 
sides, I had such a feeling of devotion for you that 
I hoped you would not regret the past. Ah! well, I 
was mistaken. I am too violent, too brusque. I 
have not learned to keep the heart which I so much 
desired to possess alone. I saw you — with what de- 
spair God knows — becoming pale, becoming each day 
more and more melancholy; and when I learned, 
here in this land where I hoped you would recover 
your health, that instead you had found again — 
what? — all that you were longing for. When I 
learned that what was wearing out your life and 
breaking your heart was a dead love — no, not dead, 
but a dormant love — then I was no longer master of 
myself. All my own affection for you revolted, 
words of bitter anger came unbidden to my lips, 
like sobs, and I let fall utterances, perhaps irrepara- 


350 


l’americaine. 


ble, but which I regret from the bottom of my heart, 
and for which I beg your pardon.” 

“Pardon?” cried Sylvia. “ You ask pardon of 
me?” 

She recalled Georges’ words. She had heard 
them, she confessed to herself, with a secret pleas- 
ure. She almost wanted to cry out and confess her 
guilt. And it was Norton who asked her pardon. 

“I hope, Sylvia, that you will forget that hour of 
anger, in view of the years of affection and respect 
I have given you. I should never be able to forgive 
myself for leaving you with any other memory than 
that of a man whom you once respected, if you did 
not love him.” 

“A memory? Why, what do you mean?” She 
felt that the final supreme word of this interview had 
not yet been spoken and she was awaiting it, 
anxious, terrified. 

“It is very simple,” said Norton, firmly. And 
repeating with a kind of persistence as if he felt a 
pleasure in inflicting suffering upon himself, he went 
on: 

“You do not love me. You will never love me. 
The life I have prepared for you, in spite of my good 
intentions and of my love, is killing you. The union 
so ardently desired by your father, and accepted by 


l’americaine. 


351 


yourself, has become a prison. The law gives you a 
means of escape.” 

‘‘The law?” stammered Sylvia. 

“Yes; divorce.” He had at last uttered the word. 

She started. 

He continued, coldly: 

“Nothing is simpler. Unhappy with me you may 
be happy when free. If I were not to accept this 
solution I should be selfish. I may be rough and 
violent, but I am not selfish, Sylvia.” 

“And it is you who wish — ” 

“It is I. I love you well enough to make the sac- 
rifice. This is the conclusion to which the reflection 
of a night has brought me. I do not say that I 
suffer any the less for having reached it, but that 
matters little. Man is made to suffer.” 

“But if I do not accept?” she said eagerly. 

He lifted his eyes to her and said softly: 

“Why, is it a sentiment of honor, of gratefulness 
or of charity which prompts you? I might be con- 
vinced of your devotion, but I should not be long in 
repenting my course when I saw that you regretted 
it. I have told you what I have resolved to do and 
I will do it. In my rough, rude life, in which I have 
nothing to complain of, I have accomplished all I 
wished — all except to be loved. It depends on me 


352 


l’americaine. 


to show you that I was worthy ot you. You shall 
judge which is the greater — the love which desires 
simply or that which can sacrifice itself.” 

“Is your wish a command?” asked Sylvia, after 
a moment’s reflection. 

“A command,” he answered. “Yes, a command. 
It is the last I shall make. Fate has willed that the 
joy of having a babe be denied us. I have often 
counted upon the sweet voice of a dear little being 
to bring you closer to me. No, all is well. Divorce 
is bad only when it strikes at innocent children. In 
separating unhappy parents, the children have 
everything to lose. We are free. I would have 
neither the right nor the courage to break our mar- 
riage, if between us there was a poor child to suffer.” 

He added resolutely: “I have already consulted 
a lawyer.” 

“A lawyer?” repeated Sylvia. 

“A lawyer is necessary for the legal part of it. 
All you have to do is to live apart from me in 
France during a certain time; a year, I think. This 
will be sufficient to justify a separation, I should 
say a divorce. But I intend that the demand shall 
be so formulated that all the wrongdoing shall ap- 
pear to come from me. The document once drawn 
up, Mr. Cadogan will bring it to you here, with me, 


l’americaine. 


353 


and that within a few hours. You will only have to 
sign it and — ” 

“Mr. Cadogan?” she interrupted. 

“You know him?” 

He suddenly paused, on hearing a noise, and 
asked himself who was there. 

Some one knocked at the door. Norton could 
not help a movement of irritation. 

“I have said all that is necessary,” he continued, 
“but it appears that we are not to be alone.” 

“It is Eva,” said Sylvia. 

The voice of the young girl, heard through the 
door, calmed Richard’s fears, and he went himself 
to open the door. He found himself face to face 
with Eva, who was pushing before her little 
Francis Ruaud, timid, bashful, his cap in his hand, 
his hair tangled and unkempt, as it always was, but 
with clothes cleaner than usual. 

Eva was holding him by the shoulders, for he 
seemed to be on the point of escaping. 

“Go in,” she said. “There is Mrs. Norton and 
Mr. Norton; he will not eat you, child.” 

The child, with an awkward air, hanging his 
head in a shamefaced way said: “I know that, Miss, 
but — my shoes — they are all muddy — ” And he 
pointed to the wet leather of his coarse shoes. 

23 


354 


L’AMERI CAINE. 


“This boy insists on seeing Sylvia,” said Eva, 
dragging the urchin to Mr. Norton. ' The little 
Francis stood silent, waiting to be questioned. 

“Why did you come?” asked Sylvia. 

“Because, madame,” he said, twirling his cap, 
“you said if you did not come to mamma’s I might — ” 

Eva looked first at Norton and then at Sylvia with 
the vague instinct that she had interrupted a serious 
conversation. What was it then? Could the com- 
ing of the boy Francis be embarrassing to them? 

“Is anything the matter with you?” she asked 
of Norton. 

“With me?” said Richard. “Nothing; ask Sylvia. 
What do you suppose is the matter with me?” 

Then turning to Francis he said: “So, my boy, 
you came to see Mrs. Norton.” 

“Oh! nothing important. Mamma said like this 
— said she — ‘since the lady does not come, go to 
the villa, and do not forget, Francis, do not forget.’ 
As if I could forget.” 

“It is your mother who has sent you?” asked 
Sylvia. 

“It is mamma.” 

“Is she better, poor woman?” 

“Oh, yes, madame.” 

The child stopped, scratched his head and added: 


l’americaine. 


355 


“I say yes, and it is yes and no. Yes, as far as she 
is concerned, and no as to papa.” 

“How?” asked Eva. “Is your papa Ruaud sick 
also?” 

Francis nodded his head sadly: 

“Oh, do not speak of it. My old ones seem to 
have bad luck. When it is not one it is the other. 
Mamma got up and began to go about; you know, 
mademoiselle, her lame back; well, she was cured of 
that when papa, on getting out of his boat last 
Wednesday, stumbled, his foot slipped, and he fell, 
his knee striking on a stone, and it all swelled up, 
oh! so big. The doctor says it may be very serious. 
They talked about an operation. That is what 
mamma told me to say to you. Oh! that would not 
be nice, to have only one leg.” 

“Poor man,” said Sylvia. Norton had come near 
the boy, and looking at him said: 

“Then your father is very much discouraged nat- 
urally.” - 

A queer light flashed from the sea-green eyes of 
the boy, and with the cunning of his race he replied: 

“It is very strange how it all came about, sir. It 
made my heart big, to see my father stretched out 
there, his leg in a machine, an apparatus they called 
it; and yet this accident, it may, perhaps ” 


356 


LAMERI CAINE. 


“May what?” asked Eva. 

The boy hesitated as if afraid to speak. 

“ Go on,” said Norton. 

“I do not know whether it is proper for me to 
talk so much,” he said. Then resuming: 

“ After that, you know how things were between 
papa and mamma; you have seen it — their quar- 
rels. They did not seem to suit each other. They 
kept finding fault with each other. It is true that 
papa was oftenest in the wrong,” and the child made 
the motion of drinking, “ and it is likely when he 
fell and hurt his knee, that it was because of too 
much calvados. But at heart he is not bad, my father 
Ruaud. And yet! ah! mamma would have no more 
to do with papa. Oh! it was all over and they were 
going to separate.” 

The eyes of Norton and Sylvia met as by instinct. 

“ To separate?” said Norton. 

“ How?” said Sylvia. 

“Dame!” ejaculated the child. “Mamma had 
grown tired of working for nothing, because if father 
had courage to work, he was weak and allowed a 
crowd of idlers and good-for-nothings to drag him 
to the cider shops. And it took a good many catches 
of fishes and turtles to pay his score for the rounds 
of brandy and cider. Then mamma said at last, ‘It 


l’americaine. 


357 


is too much; you can not see your way clearly. You 
have a film over your eyes like the last year’s whit- 
ings. I break my back to keep the house neat and 
tidy, do not go into debt, and yet at the end of the year 
everything has gone for chopines. We will go, each 
his own way — you to your bottle, I to my sewing. 
That is what I think.’ And they kept thinking about 
it, about going away — he this way, she that, and 
they would have done it one of these fine mornings. 
And when the father said, * You know what it costs 
to separate,’ the mamma said only, ‘ It costs the 
trouble of gathering up your traps and going straight 
before you. Oh! we need no judges! no tribunals. 
You go to the right and I will go to the left. I have 
had enough of it.’ ” 

“And you, Francis?” asked Eva. Norton was 
pale and Sylvia kept her eyes upon the ground. 

“ In all this trouble,” said the child, “I paid for 
the broken pots; what else could I do? Between the 
two I could not choose — truly, I love them both. I 
said to myself, if it comes to that I will work with 
papa and when I have saved some sous, or a white 
piece, who knows? — well, I will carry it to mamma. 
But thank the good God! I do not think I will 
have to do that. They had been quarrelling, the old 
ones, the morning of the day when father, on getting 


358 


l’americaine. 


out of his boat,” and Francis made a motion descrip- 
tive of a man falling, “and that time I thought all 
was over for sure. Oh, such a scene as it was! I 
tell you! Mamma had already made up her bundle 
and she cried, how she cried. ‘No, it is not possible,’ 
she said.” 

“She cried, did she?” said Norton, slowly this 
time, seeking Sylvia’s eyes. 

“ Dame!" repeated the child. “To separate ! The 
very thought of it, papa said, gave him a queer, 
squirming feeling in the stomach.” 

“And then?” said Sylvia. 

“When they brought him home like that in their 
arms, stretched out on two oars, so pale, the father, 
white as a sheet, then, oh! then, mamma said nothing 
more. She went right to taking care of him with her 
own hands. No, I am a little mistaken; at first she 
said: ‘Well, you are in a pretty fix, and now I’ll 
have to suffer for it.’ Dame! she was right; the 
poor woman has had enough trouble and worry over it. 
Twenty times a day, on that day, she would say like 
this: ‘ It is very true that I was going to leave you 
in the lurch, old man, and now I cannot do it, and 
I will have you on my back, Ruaud, with your bottle 
and your bad company. But I cannot leave you 
now. Even if I had the chance, it is not the time to 


l’americaine. 


359 


leave you now. Besides, we have grown accustomed 
to pulling in harness together. Well, where the goat 
is tethered, there he must browse. We will stay to- 
gether.’ When I heard mamma say that, I said 
nothing, you understand, but it made me feel happy, 
very happy.” 

“And she will stay?” asked Sylvia. 

“And your father?” inquired Norton. 

“He? You ought to have heard him. He said, 
‘Who knows; maybe we must be unfortunate before 
we can love each other! Kiss me, old woman, come!’ 
When I saw them with their hands clasped and their 
eyes wet, I said to myself that I should not be sorry 
for the accident if it reunited them. It is so hard to 
have those you love constantly misunderstanding 
each other.” 

“We need, perhaps, to be unfortunate to be able 
truly to love each other,” said Norton, repeating the 
fisherman’s words. 

He was thinking that misfortune had not brought 
him happiness, no, not happiness. But as if he 
feared after the odium of his brutality, the ridicule 
of a supersensibility, he shook his head and de- 
manded sharply of the boy: 

“Where is your house, my lad?” 

“Over yonder! On the road to Tourgeville,” said 


l’americaine. 


360 

he, smiling at Eva. “Mademoiselle knows the way 
very well.” 

“I will go with you,” proposed Miss Meredith. 

“No, I will go with you,” said Richard to Fran- 
cis.” I have to go out.” 

While Sylvia was much moved by the memories 
which the child’s innocent prattle had aroused in her, 
Eva said to Norton: 

“How excited you are!” 

“Do you think so?” he replied. “It is the story of 
this fisherman, perhaps. See here! As I have some- 
thing serious — a business . matter — to accomplish, 
I wish first to perform an act of charity — Something 
to bring good luck, as in gambling.” 

“Then you are going to Ruaud’s?” 

“I am charitable for a selfish reason — yes. Do 
you stay with Sylvia.” 

“Why?” 

“She will tell you, perhaps.” 

Then with a sign to Francis he said: “Come on, 
little man.” 

Sylvia had turned. “Where are you going?” she 
said. 

“I told you a moment ago, and I will return 
soon.” 


’Soon?” 


l’americaine. 


361 


“Since you wish it,” he answered smiling. 

As he was about to go out the little Ruaud 
paused on the doorstep, and saluting Eva and 
Sylvia, at the same time scraping the floor with his 
feet, he said: 

“Ah, madame! Mamma not only said to me to 
tell you about the accident which happened to papa 
but also to wish you a thousand prosperities. Au 
revoir, madame, mademoiselle.” 

After the child had gone with Norton, Sylvia, 
nodding her head, mechanically repeated: 

“A thousand prosperities.” These wishes for 
her happiness fell upon her heart with an ironical 
cruelty. Where was happiness for Mrs. Norton to 
be found now? 


CHAPTER XIII. 


On seeing Norton leave the house it seemed to 
Eva that some concealed drama was about to be 
enacted, something which would bring misfortune. 
Between Richard and Sylvia she felt sure there had 
been exchanged, perhaps, harsh words. And why 
had Norton gone away in such nervous haste, a man- 
ner which was not habitual with him? 

What if M. de Solis had, after all, deceived her? 
“What if Norton — ” These last words she had 
unconsciously pronounced aloud and they awoke in 
Sylvia the same anxiety. 

“Norton?” repeated Sylvia, who asked Eva to 
complete her thought. 

“I am sure,” cried the girl, “that Richard is going 
to act as one of M. de Solis’ seconds.” 

“What! Richard?” 

“M. de Solis is going to fight. He must fight. 
And it is evidently Richard whom he has chosen for 
second — ” 

“Do you think so?” 

“That is why he seemed so moved a moment 

ago. Oh! I ought to have guessed it.” 

862 


l’americaine. 


363 


“Why it is quite impossible that Norton should 
serve as M. de Solis’ second,” said Sylvia. 

“Why? They are two friends. Two brothers 
almost.” 

“I tell you it is impossible — impossible. But if 
there is a meeting it may be between — ” 

“The marquis and Colonel Dickson,” completed 
Eva. 

“Are you sure? And if it were,” said Sylvia, into 
whose mind a new thought had come, “between 
Norton and — ” 

She stopped suddenly, recoiling before her own 
supposition. 

“Oh! I must be mad,” she said. “He has gone off 
with Francis Ruaud. Suppose he were to go — ” 

“Where?” said Eva. “Besides, if Richard has con- 
fided nothing to you, it is because there is nothing 
to /confide. Richard loves no one in the world 
except you. He would have no secret from you.” 

“He loves no one in the world except you.” Eva 
did not note Sylvia’s expression and the rapid flush 
which spread over her face. There was something 
like shame in this stealthy change of countenance, 
and Mrs. Norton, ill at ease, remained silent, think- 
ing with the strange sensation of a mind half-wan- 
dering, disturbed to the bottom of her soul, of this 


364 


l’americaine. 


moment in her life when all the rest of her existence 
was hanging on the cast of a die, depending upon 
the result of a game of hazard. 

She was drawn from this sort of stupor by the 
entrance of a servant, who announced Mr. Mont- 
gomery. 

Eva was joyous. Mr. Montgomery would tell 
them, perhaps, what was going on in the outside 
world. 

The stout man entered, wiping his forehead and 
looking anxious. 

“Mrs. Norton, Miss Eva, good morning! Where 
is Norton?” 

“ He went out just now,” said Eva. “ I thought 
you would want to see him.” 

“Without doubt — without doubt!” 

“For the duel?” asked Eva. 

Montgomery appeared astonished. 

“The duel? You know about it, then?” 

“We know, yes. What more about it?” 

The American shrugged his shoulders, fanning 
himself meanwhile with his handkerchief. 

“Oh! yes, the duel. It is not that, however, 
which troubles me. I am worried because Norton 
does not know — but the duel is over with; it is all 
arranged.” 


l’americaine. 


365 


“Arranged?” And Eva joyously looked at Sylvia. 

“Yes,” said Montgomery, speaking rapidly, “there 
is no use in talking more about that. But ” 

“But what?” 

“Nothing, nothing, I assure you, Mrs. Norton. 
Business matters which concern Norton and my- 
self ” 

“But you seem agitated, Mr. Montgomery,” said 
Eva in a serious tone, feeling that some new danger 
was threatening. 

Montgomery tried to smile: “I agitated! Ah, 
no! I am a little warm, that is all. It is very hot 
on the beach.” 

“And then this dispatch ” 

“What dispatch?” 

“From New York.” 

He felt that he had said too much and tried to 
recall his words, or at least to explain them away: 
“Oh, insignificant, insignificant!” 

Eva regarded him fixedly. 

“You can tell us all, Mr. Montgomery. What 
you have to tell my uncle is serious.” 

“Oh! no, not serious, not very serious. It is inter- 
esting, however.” 

“But you have just said the dispatch is insig- 
nificant.” 


366 


l’americaine. 


Montgomery replied quickly: 

“Absolutely insignificant and — and — interesting. 
That is it exactly — interesting and insignificant, like 
all dispatches.” 

He stammered, very ill at ease, sorry to have 
said too much and dreading to say any more. 

“Ah! there is Liliane,” he said, with the air of a 
drowning man to whom some one has thrown a life- 
preserver. 

It was indeed Mrs. Montgomery, who entered 
like a whirlwind, arrayed in a toilette of mastic and 
a Gainsborough on her pretty head. 

“Ah! my dear friends, it is I. Have you a glass 
of water or of port — no matter what — that I may 
refresh myself with a little? I am in such a fury.” 

“What is it?” said Montgomery. 

“Liliane will tell us what the dispatch contains,” 
said Eva. 

“She knows nothing about it,” said Montgomery 
softly. 

Sylvia held out her hand to Liliane: 

“Where do you come from, dear friend?” 

“Where do I come from?” and Mrs. Montgomery 
screamed rather than spoke: “From a cave, from a 
den. I come from Harrison’s.” 

Montgomery made a grimace. 


l’americaine. 


367 


“The great painter?” asked Sylvia. 

The handsome Liliane interrupted her in a loud 
tone: 

“Harrison a great painter! Don’t speak to me 
about him. Never speak to me again about Harri- 
son. Bah! a great painter. He is a fourth rate 
dauber.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Montgomery enchanted. 

“A man who exacts thirty-five sittings of two 
hours each — thirty-five times two — seventy hours of 
immobility.” 

“Of immobility?” said Montgomery. 

“Absolute; like that I have just undergone.” 

“That is true,” said the husband. “I had forgot- 
ten. To-day is the first sitting.” 

“A man who has given me a crick in the neck; 
who would not let me utter a single word, but made 
me sit perfectly still like a manikin. ‘A little more 
to this side, please, Mrs. Montgomery — there, that is 
better. Take that pose over again, I pray you, Mrs. 
Montgomery. Ah! thank you.’ That would have 
gone on for thirty-five days. No indeed! No! Noth- 
ing but the rough sketch. And his rough sketch is 
bad enough in all conscience. And then, can you 
imagine it, he didn’t intend to send my portrait to 
the Salon. He already has two pictures for the 


368 


l’americaine. 


Salon. A naiad, after Miss Arabella, and a portrait 
of Arabella herself on horseback on the beach. 
Arabella! Arabella always! Too much of Arabella. 
The portrait of Arabella is the more insolent, 
that it is superb. Very much better than mine 
would have been, mine which would have turned 
out bad, horribly bad.” 

Liliane walked up and down as she talked, filling 
the room with her petulance. Montgomery con- 
tented himself with saying, coldly: 

“Well, it is natural that Miss Dickson’s portrait 
should be the better painted. She will not pay for 
it you know.” 

Liliane looked at her husband quizzically, shrug- 
ging her shoulders. 

“You think so?” 

“Well, to be brief, what do you intend to do 
about your portrait?” insisted her husband. 

“The devil take it and Harrison with it! What a 
fright he has become! How he has aged! Why it is 
incredible!” 

“Ah!” said Montgomery ironically. “The ago- 
nies of art!” The husband was enjoying his triumph. 

Mrs. Montgomery was implacable. She contin- 
ued her tirade against the painter. 

“He? Agony! Well that is good. Harrison suf- 


l’americaine. 


369 


fering agony for his art! A maker of pretty faces for 
women! He has no more fervor when he paints than 
has a tailor when he cuts out a jersey or a waist. If 
you could see his sketch of me! Little eyes, like 
that! An abominable nose! Oh! I will never look at 
the horror again, never, never, never! Do you want 
me to tell you what I think of your Harrison?” 

“My Harrison?” said Montgomery stupefied. 

“Yes, he made me just such a portrait as a hus- 
band would! That is the kind of a painter he is.” 

“Thanks!” replied Montgomery. “But what 
would you have? He has avenged himself. Every- 
body is not magnanimous.” 

“Like the Montgomerys.” 

“If you will,” said Montgomery, “we will speak 
of Harrison later, or we will not speak of him at all 
if you like. At present I must absolutely find Nor- 
ton.” 

Turning to Sylvia he said: “He has gone out, 
you say?” 

“To the fisherman’s hut,” said Eva. “ You know 

yy 

“To Ruaud’s?” said Liliane. “I know the way.” 

“And then he was going to the telegraph station,” 
added Eva. 

“I will go, then,” said Montgomery. 

24 


370 


l’americaine. 


“And I will go with you,” said Liliane. “A turn 
on the beach with you, Lionel, is so rare.” 

The fat little man turned as red as a ripe rasp- 
berry and sighed: 

“Ah! if I were not so anxious, how r happy I would 
be.” 

“Anxious!” she said. “You were about to tell 
me. A husband ought to tell his wife everything,” 
added Liliane, in alow voice. 

He only answered by making signs, meaning to 
call his wife’s attention to the presence of Sylvia and 
Eva. 

“ Everything, my good Lionel.” She took his 
arm, and he, beaming with happiness, said: 

“You are charming. Oh! how glad I am that 
Harrison failed in your portrait.” 

He turned toward Sylvia, saying: 

“If Norton comes back I will return.” 

“ We will see each other again,” said Liliane, 
gaily. 

He went out with his wife, who, while they were 
descending the stairway, murmured, with her rosy 
mouth close to his scarlet ear: 

“You are going to tell me everything, are you 
not, Lionel?” 

Eva felt more and more the menace of some 


l’americaine. 


371 


danger, and in spite of the affirmations of Mont- 
gomery, she was sure that the New York dispatch, 
of which he had spoken was not so insignificant as 
he would have her believe. Montgomery had so 
many interests in common with Richard. Did not 
his feverish air prove that there was as much peril 
in America as in France? 

The young girl no longer dared to question or 
reassure Sylvia. A profound silence fell upon these 
two women, absorbed in their thoughts, enveloped, 
as it were, with an atmosphere of dread. 

It appeared to Sylvia that she wanted to be alone 
— alone to enjoy the memory of Georges — alone to 
say to herself that now that liberty which she had 
longed for, which Solis had dreamed of, was within 
her reach. Divorce would give it to her. And with 
this liberty there was the possibility of uniting her 
life to this man — the man who had disappeared for 
five years, and who had reappeared — for her a living 
dream — a possible happiness. Yes, she wanted to 
be far from Eva, to think of him, and to ask herself 
what she should now do. 

“Let us fly!” Georges had said. 

But she had no need to do that now. She was 
free, once more, legally free. Divorce would eman- 
cipate her. 

\ 


3/2 


l’americaine. 


She might yet be the wife of Georges. How 
happy he would be when he should know it. 

“Happy!” The word arrested her thought. 

Why did a vague anxiety come over her? Yes, 
he would have been happy to find love in that flight 
which without divorce would have been a fault — a 
crime 

She rose, choking, almost trembling at the idea, 
which the young girl might almost read in her eyes. 

“Where are you going?” asked Eva. 

“To my room.” 

Eva did not dare to ask any questions, feel- 
ing that there was some trouble, something tragic 
in that heart in which was written the name of 
Georges de Solis. 

Miss Meredith, now left alone, had never been so 
sad in her life; She really wanted to cry. She 
tried to reassure herself, but her melancholy per- 
sisted, and on this" beautiful summer’s day, under 
the calm blue sky, she felt as if something unknown 
and terrible were hovering over her. Inaction be- 
came irksome. She had an impulse to go out and 
ask for news, as if by running to meet the danger 
(since there must be a danger) she might avert it. 

But undecided, hesitating, she remained where 
she was, in a sort of torpor, looking out of the open 
/ 


l’americaine. 


373 


window at the sea, while the time passed. Suddenly 
she started. Some one was coming without. Who 
could it be? Some one to tell her of Richard or 
of Georges? 

She rose quickly as if moved by an electric shock. 

It was Madame de Solis. The marchioness, in 
spite of the smile with which she received Eva’s 
salutation, had an air of preoccupation which struck 
the young girl. Certainly outside the villa, some 
drama was taking place. But since the mother was 
there, Eva would know. 

She went forward joyously, saying: 

“Why! is it you, marchioness?” 

The marchioness took the young girl’s hands in 
her own, saying: 

“Yes, my dear Miss Meredith; I am enchanted 
to find you here. I come to speak to Mrs. Norton. 
I have something very serious to say to her.” 

“Very serious?” asked Eva. 

“And very painful.” 

“Ah! I thought so,” said Eva. “My God! what 
has happened?” 

“Do not be alarmed, my child, I have come to 
remedy matters if that is possible.” 

“Remedy? Then there is some great calamity?” 
asked Eva turning pale. 


374 


l’americaine. 


“No, not yet, but there is a great danger. Do 
not ask me any more questions, I pray you. Do not 
be surprised either at what I am about to say to 
Mrs. Norton. My words may astonish you. They 
will be startling in appearance — very startling — 
extraordinary. Remember, though, that they have 
but one object, the happiness of your uncle and 
that of Sylvia — and — who knows?” 

She stopped suddenly. 

“Who knows? What?” asked Eva anxiously. 

“ Yours, perhaps,” answered Madame de Solis. 

“ I do not understand, madame.” 

“You have no need of understanding. You have 
only to listen and to keep still. And once for all, do 
not betray any astonishment. I am playing a seri- 
ous role and I must play it as I please. I have 
already gained a large stake on the one side and I 
wish to win one on the other, here. Now I would 
like to see Mrs. Norton.” 

“ I will notify her at once,” said Eva. 

“ Thanks.” 

Eva rang and sent a servant to announce that the 
Marchioness de Solis wished to speak with Mrs. 
Norton. 

For a moment the marchioness and Eva remained 
silent, neither daring to pronounce a new word. 


l’americaine. 


375 


Madame de Solis was rehearsing in her mind her 
entire plan of campaign which she had arranged as 
she came, and the young girl dared not question her, 
feeling her heart beat in an agony of apprehension. 

Sylvia on entering was much astonished at find- 
ing herself face to face with Georges’ mother, and the 
latter was struck with the pallor of the young woman. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she began, “ for forcing 
your doors, but I have some matters of the utmost 
importance to communicate to you.” 

“Please take this arm-chair,” said Sylvia, while 
Eva mentally repeated the words of the marchion- 
ess. 

“ My words will have but one object — the happi- 
ness of your uncle and Sylvia.” 

Mrs. Norton, too, was thinking. She was think- 
ing of those wild, feverish words which Georges had 
spoken to her when he supplicated her to fly — to fly 
with him. 

“All my life to love you,” he had murmured, he 
whose mother was there before her, trying to smile. 

“The matter which brought me here is this,” she 
said. “You have seen Mr. Montgomery?” 

“He was here an hour ago,” responded Sylvia. 

“And doubtless,” insinuated the marchioness, “he 
told you of the news which inspired an article in the 


376 


l’americaine. 


New York Herald , much commented upon this 
morning?” 

“No; what is the article?” 

“I regret very much,” replied Madame de Solis, 
coldly, “that Mr. Montgomery is not here. He 
would have explained far better than I the matter 
to which reference is made in the newspaper article. 
Especially as Mr. Montgomery is a little — how shall 
I express it — implicated in the article.” 

“Implicated?” 

The word seemed strange to Sylvia, and Eva 
asked quickly: 

“With what offense does that journal charge Mr. 
Montgomery?” 

The marchioness affected a careless air, a world- 
ly, conversational tone, as if what she was saying 
did not cover up a world of disaster and grief. 

“With what does the New York Herald charge 
Mr. Montgomery? Oh, exactly what it charges 
upon Mr. Richard Norton.” 

“But,” said Sylvia firmly, “Mr. Montgomery is 

the partner of my of Mr. Norton, and I wish to 

know ” 

The marchioness smiled. 

“What good will it do? They are calumnious 
reports.” 


l’americaine. 


377 


“The more reason to know whence and from 
whom they come,” said Sylvia. 

Madame de Solis was toying with her hat ribbons. 

“From whom?” she said carelessly. “Oh, that is 
simple enough. From some stockholder who has 
been injured in his interests. A man who has been 
ruined has neither pity nor moderation.” 

“A man who is ruined! ” cried Sylvia. She had 
been sitting thus far during the interview. She now 
rose and stood erect and haughty. 

“Madame,” said Eva, trembling. 

The marchioness interrupted her. 

“Ah! Miss Eva, you are not very obedient. You 
promised to let me talk without interruption.” 

“And I,” said Sylvia, feverishly, “I ask you to 
go on and tell all.” 

“All?” asked Madame de Solis, putting an almost 
insulting cruelty into her tone. 

“Yes, madame,” said Mrs. Norton. “There are 
some kinds of reticence which are outrages.” 

“Well, then,” said Madame de Solis, “I will tell 
all. But—” 

She paused, listening to a sound coming from 
the ante-chamber. 

“It is Paul, M. de Berniere, my nephew. I do 
not know whether I ought before him.” 


378 


l’americaine. 


“You may speak of what concerns Mr. Norton 
before everybody,” said Sylvia, with dignity. 

Berniere had entered and had saluted Mrs. Nor- 
ton, then Eva and Madame de Solis, the latter 
responding only by a bow. 

“Do you know, Monsieur de Berniere,” asked 
Sylvia, “what Madame de Solis has just told me?” 

“What is it, madame?” said Paul, pretending not 
to understand. 

The marchioness quickly explained: 

“What they are saying about Mr. Norton’s 
mines.” 

Berniere became very much confused, turned' 
red and almost gasped: 

“Oh! my aunt! Here? Why do you talk of it 
here?” 

“Here above all,” said Sylvia. “I want to know 
all.” 

“Very well, my dear madam,” answered the mar- 
chioness, “I shall tell you, the more so as my nephew 
has also heard the story. In fact, it is the talk of 
Trouville, of Havre and of all the coast. You know 
there are as many centers of gossip along the seaside 
as there are ant-hills in the woods. Each has his 
little stock, his corner, his tales and his venom.” 

The word was like a wound to Sylvia, and in pro- 


l’americaine. 


379 


portion as the marchioness talked, the pain became 
more stinging. 

“His venom!” repeated Eva, her lip curling 
proudly. 

“ Oh ! ” said Berniere, “one should pay no atten- 
tion to such things.” 

Eva listened as if she were the victim of some 
horrible nightmare. What cruel part could the 
marchioness be playing? Though she had been 
warned not to be astonished at anything, the young 
girl felt all her pride, and her respect for Norton, 
rise in revolt, and she found it necessary to make an 
effort to repress her violent nature in order to let 
Madame de Solis go on plunging needles, one after 
another, in her palpitating flesh. 

“ I admit,” said the marchioness, “that my coun- 
trywomen are quite disposed to pour acid on a 
wound. The Parisian reporters will meddle in it. I 
foresee interviews. But, in the present case, it is the 
Americans — your Americans, my dear Eva — who 
seem to display the most activity, bitter, venomous 
activity, against Mr. Norton?” 

“Against him? He has never done them any 
harm. On the contrary, he has loaded them with 
benefits,” said Miss Meredith. 


380 


L AM ERI CAINE. 


“It is for that reason, perhaps, that they are inim- 
ical to him,” said Berniere. 

“Yes,” continued Madame de Solis, “it is per- 
haps for that reason that they pretend — and this is 
the rumor of which I spoke and which I wish as a 
friend to denounce — they pretend — they really 
ought to put a stop to such a calumny — they pre- 
tend — but really, I dare not, in spite of your pessi- 
mism.” 

“I begged you to do so, madam, and I now 
demand it,” said Sylvia, incisively. “They pretend 
what?” 

She waited to hear this scandal as a brave soldier 
waits to receive the ball which is to end his exist- 
ence. She held her head proudly erect, and upon 
her face was a look of defiance. 

Berniere was trying in the meantime, speaking in 
a low, supplicating tone, to reduce his aunt to 
silence. 

Madame de Solis did not listen to her nephew. 

“Well.” she continued, “they say, they pretend, 
assert — oh, it is all a story.” 

“A vile romance!” interrupted Berniere. 

“They tell a story that Mr. Richard Norton 
bought lands in the West, I do not know where; that 
he dug a well without finding a single drop of oil. 


l’americaine. 


381 


One day, behold — a miracle — the oil spouted forth! 
A lake of oil! A fortune! There was a call made 
on the stockholders. Now, Paul, explain what you 
have heard said of it. We are here to find out the 
truth.” 

“The truth,” said Berniere. “But these are cal- 
umnies, my aunt.” 

“Evidently,” said Madame de Solis. 

“Go on; they are indeed calumnies,” said Sylvia 
with a gesture of command. 

“Well, they say that after this call made upon 
the interested stockholders, a committee was ap- 
pointed to verify the report. The committee ex- 
amined the well — I only repeat what the New York 
Herald says — it examined the well. Yes, it was in- 
deed mineral oil. Samples of it were brought back 
and distributed to the stockholders.” 

“A dividend,” said Madame de Solis, coldly. 

“A liquid dividend,” added Berniere. 

“The only one they will ever receive,” the mar- 
chioness went on, her lips drawn in an ironical smile, 
“for the well, the famous well, is now as dry as our 
sand beach here. Not a drop of oil — of that oil 
bought in Pennsylvania, says the New York Herald y 
carried West and poured in the well by — confeder- 
ates.” 


382 


l’AMERI CAINE. 


“In short, a theft,” said Sylvia, frigidly. 

“A theft! How you do run on.” 

“It is a shame,” said Eva, whose handsome face 
was livid. She did not hear Madame de Solis, who 
said to her: “Be silent.” 

“And,” continued Berniere, “if we were not per- 
suaded that the whole matter was a base slander, I 
would not have dared to make an allusion to the un- 
worthy reports which do not even merit the disdain 
and contempt we have for them.” 

Eva sank upon a divan, where she sat, her inter- 
laced hands between her knees, the picture of indig- 
nation. 

“What have we done to all these people, that 
they should insult us without even knowing us?” 

“Nothing,” said Berniere. “You have done noth- 
ing to them. It is because they have nothing to do.” 

“See what they have invented,” cried Sylvia. “See 
what they are peddling about for the want of some- 
thing better to do, out of sheer idleness, simply to 
pass the time — as people look at the hulk of some 
dismantled, old vessel half buried in the sands on 
the beach. Norton has cheated his stockholders! 
He has invented this infamous robbery! He has 
committed this theft! And how? These Americans, 
with their business! Where does he come from? 


l’americaine. 


383 


Out of what social rank does he come? Why did 
he not stay at home? He brings here his money, 
his luxury, his activity, and even his charity. But 
whence comes this money which he so freely gives 
to the poor? Who is Richard Norton? And first, 
why is he so rich? What adventurer, what filibuster 
is he? Oh! it is worse than that. They now say 
bluntly, so it appears, that he is a thief, a swindler! 
Well then, they lie, they lie I tell you! We can tell 
them to their faces,” she said, looking at Berniere 
and Madame de Solis, “that they lie, stupidly, 
cravenly lie!” 

In the fragile form of this invalid there raged 
an ardent, generous energy, the energy of an honest 
wife, who takes up as a* challenge the insult which 
has been offered to the being she honors and respects. 

Madame de Solis looked at the young woman, 
adorable in her anger, her eyes aflame, and her hair 
partially disarranged falling upon her brow. 

She longed to embrace her, but restrained her 
impulse, and like a woman of heart, who knows the 
heart of a woman, she went on, determined to test 
her experiment to the end. 

“All the more have they lied,” she said, with icy 
phlegm, “since Norton’s real situation is a sufficient 
answer to these slanderous reports.” 


384 


LAMERI CAINE. 


“What situation?” asked Sylvia. 

“It is serious, but it does him great credit. And 
I have come here to bring words of consolation, 
true and sincere, in this hour of his ruin.” 

“Ruin!” echoed Eva. 

Madame de Solis assumed the alarmed air of one 
who has committed an imprudence and wishes to 
soften its effects. 

“How! Do you not know?” she said. “Why, 
Mr. Norton has told me all about the condition of 
his finances and his latest resolution. His attorney, 
Mr. Cadogan, happens to be my friend.” 

“His attorney?” repeated Eva, while Sylvia 
stood there silently, her eyes lost in the vague dis- 
tance. 

“Why, yes, to be sure,” said the marchioness; 
“but I have been so indiscreet! I have brought you 
bad news. Why, it is impossible that you did not 
know ” 

“What?” asked Miss Meredith. But Sylvia an- 
swered: “Eva, dear Eva.” 

Paul de Berniere took several steps toward the 
door as if to go out. 

“I think I shall go,” he said; “I beg your par- 
don ” 

Eva spoke. “No, no,” she said proudly, “there 


l’ameeicaine. 


385 


is no secret in Richard Norton’s house which every- 
body cannot properly hear.” 

“Well,” replied Madame de Solis, that separa- 
tion. Mr. Cadogan is coming — yes, I have it from 
him — is coming to bring the papers for the divorce.” 

Eva looked at Sylvia, searching with her feverish 
eyes those of the young wife. Sylvia remained 
silent. 

“You do not answer,” said Eva. “Is it true then? 
Is it possible? Oh, my poor uncle! Oh, Sylvia, 
Sylvia.” 

“We must be just,” explained Madame de Solis. 
“It is Mr. Norton who wishes this separation. But 
Mrs. Norton is right in accepting it, entirely right. 
Firstly and above all we must consider our own hap- 
piness, our own destiny. He will suffer, no doubt; 
have you not suffered for years? He is saddened, he 
is unhappy; but do we not all have to bear misfort- 
unes? Especially when those dear to us have to suf- 
fer? Be reasonable, Miss Eva, Mrs. Norton is 
young. She* will be free. She would indeed be a 
fool not to live the life she has coveted, without 
troubling herself, about him whose name she has 
borne. What is a name indeed? At best but a 
memory.” 

“Madame!” said Sylvia. 

25 


386 


l’americaine. 


“We forget the dead,” added the marchioness. 
“Divorce is a widowhood which permits us to forget 
the living. And now since they accuse Mr. Norton 

yy 

“Since they slander him,” corrected Sylvia. 

“It is the time to show that the wife is perfectly 
irresponsible for the faults, for the existence of her 
husband ” 

“Even when that husband would give his life for 
her,” said Eva indignantly. 

The marchioness took her by the hand: 

“Sh! You will spoil all.” 

“But my good, dear aunt, you are a very scor- 
pion,” thought Berniere astonished. And he looked 
at the Marchioness de Solis with a profound stupe- 
faction, as a man who should suddenly see his walk- 
ing stick move, writhe, hiss and become a viper. 


\ 


CHAPTER XIV. 


While the marchioness, with the cruel skill which 
her experience in life gave her, was enlarging and 
irritating the wounds she had made in Sylvia’s 
bosom, Richard Norton, the husband, was bringing 
to the villa the lawyer whose visit he had previ- 
ously announced to his wife. 

It was not without a certain repugnance that Mr. 
Cadogan accompanied his countryman.’ The man 
of law did not think absolute cause for separation 
existed in cases like the one in question. He was a 
man of some sixty years, hale and strong, with 
thick white hair and magnificent teeth. His closely 
shaven face denoted force and character. He was 
a man not easily moved. 

“I think you are very good,” he said, “to shatter 
your existence because Mrs. Norton is suffering. 
She would become resigned with patience and time. 
Age softens many pangs.” 

“I wish,” said Norton, “that Mrs. Norton may be 
free before she is old.” 

This reasoning seemed to Mr. Cadogan a little 

sentimental. But Norton, no longer a child, could 
387 


388 


l’americaine. 


regulate his destiny according to his will; and if Mrs. 
Norton was willing to accept a divorce 

“Are you sure she will accept?” asked the so- 
licitor. 

“I am sure.” 

“So much the worse! I do not like divorces. I 
have procured many. I live by them, but I detest 
them I think they are stupid; but what is to be 
done about it? I have seen so many marriages, 
believed to be ill-assorted, which time has amelior- 
ated as it does wines. Incompatibility of tempera- 
ment! Oh! yes, when we are twenty — thirty years 
old. But when we have grown older. Ah! a com- 
patibility of ills restores the equilibrium. Rheuma- 
tisms to care for become a mutual school of dis- 
armament and resignation. I have seen an aged 
husband tend, with the devotion of a saint, his old 
paralytic wife, whom when young he pretended, 
and believed, he detested. Had they been divorced 
she would not have found the same care, nor he the 
same sensibility. Nurses are worth more in the 
economy of the world than lovers. Habitude and 
selfishness are as powerful as love; and if the latter 
originates life, the former complete and round it 
out.” 

But Mr. Cadogan had not come to enunciate his 


l’americaine. 


389 


own personal theories. Norton was bent on divorce 
and the solicitor would prepare the steps to be 
taken. He had told his client what his own private 
opinion was. It remained for him now, only to per- 
form his duty. 

Norton took him into the room where Sylvia 
was, surrounded by Berniere and the two women, 
and, with a solemnity not at all theatrical, he said: 

“I present to you my friend, Mr. Cadogan, solic- 
itor.” 

Then going straight to Sylvia and speaking in a 
low tone, he added: 

“I am glad that the act which is to terminate our 
union is to have witnesses. They can repeat some 
day, if necessary, the declaration I am about to 
make.” 

Sylvia, very pale, seemed to beseech him, by a 
look, to discuss this dreaded question privately; but 
as if he did not understand the mute appeal of the 
young woman, he took a black leathern portfolio 
from the hands of Mr. Cadogan and drew from it a 
paper, which he presented to Sylvia, saying, in a 
a clear, firm voice: 

“Here is the first signature which you are to 
make in order to be free, Sylvia.” 

“Free!” she thought, recalling all the temptations 


390 


l’americaine. 


and dreams which the word suggested. It was the 
ardent wish of Georges. Free! It was what the 
young man had caused to shine for her in the hori- 
zon, like the dawn of a new existence. It was also 
the burning aspiration of her repressed, monotonous 
life. Free! 

“Your name at the bottom of this document, and 
Mr. Cadogan will take all the steps necessary to be 
taken in the courts of the United States.” 

“A very simple procedure, madame,” added Mr. 
Cadogan. “The simple fact that you are living in 
Paris while Mr. Norton is living in New York, will 
give you the right of divorce after the lapse of one 
year.” 

Madame de Solis and Berniere stood in the 
corner of the room, spectators of this drama, while 
Eva, like a suppliant, approached Sylvia, who, still 
standing, her eyes fixed, seemed hypnotized by 
something invisible, far away, toward the sea. 

Into the midst of this silence Mrs. Montgomery 
entered, and contrary to her usually tempestuous 
style, she glided with stealthy steps into this 
chamber of agony. 

Norton, always impassable, but with a voice a 
little changed, was saying to Sylvia, who seemed 
transformed into a statue: 


l’americaine. 


391 


“A year! you understand? You have to wait one 
year before you are free. But to-morrow I shall 
have disappeared from your existence. And I want 
it distinctly understood besides, madame — and I say 
it here publicly, as before a tribunal — I want it to 
be understood that if either of us has been guilty of 
not knowing how to assure the happiness of the 
other, it is not you, whom I respect, and shall honor 
always, but it is I.” 

“Richard!” cried Eva, taking Norton’s hand as 
if to prevent him from continuing. 

He shook her off gently. “Let me alone,” he 
said. 

He looked at Sylvia, and it seemed to him that 
upon her lips there was half formed the word he 
had just uttered, “Free.” 

“Your name there, madam,” said the husband, 
pointing to the place on the paper where she was to 
sign. “You have only to place your signature there, 
and that liberty of living in accordance with your 
wishes, of which our union has deprived you, will be 
restored to you.” 

“My signature?” 

Mr. Cadogan added, “If you wish to read the 
provisions of the document, madame.” 

“For what reason?” she asked. 


392 


l’americaine. 


“They are all in your favor,” said Norton. 

Sylvia took the paper, looked at it a moment, 
and then said slowly: 

“Then it is liberty, is it?” 

“Yes.” 

Madame de Solis had approached Mrs. Norton. 
She whispered in her ear: 

“He is ruined. He is poor.” 

“One question,” asked Sylvia. “Your fortune. 
It is compromised, they tell me.” 

Richard shrugged his shoulders. 

“What matters that to you? I shall regain it — 
honestly, loyally.”’ 

“You will regain this fortune alone?” she asked, 
looking him in the face. 

“Alone.” 

“Well,” she said, lifting her head, “and what will 
you do with your companion of all these years? She 
has shared your luxury, she will share your poverty.” 

He recoiled, as if some one had suddenly struck 
him; and Sylvia with burning eyes, repeated with a 
sort of exaltation those words she had repeated in 
the past, those words of devotion, of duty. 

“You will take this man in good, as well as evil 
report, in health as in sickness, in poverty as in 
riches — ” 


LAMERI CAINE. 


393 


She stood there superb, her head high, the 
integrity of her soul speaking from her eyes: 

“This act which you have' presented me, with 
what name shall I sign it? With my maiden or 
my married name? You do not know — ” here she 
turned toward the marchioness — “ what they say of 
you. They say you have robbed the stockholders 
in your mining company. Norton, a thief ! An 
infamy! Well, this name of Norton, which you have 
given me, I will keep, since it has been insulted." 

With her nervous hands she had torn in pieces 
the paper which her husband had given her and had 
thrown the fragments on the floor at her feet, as if 
she would have trampled upon the calumny itself. 

Eva was weeping. Norton, pale ,and ready to 
faint with joy, he whom the most cruel experiences 
had not shaken, held out his strong hands to Sylvia, 
while the marchioness, in a joyous voice, said to the 
young woman: 

“It was necessary that he should suffer to make , 
you understand his value. It is I who — ” 

“You?" said Norton. 

“Yes, I. In attacking you before her. It was 
risky, but I knew what the heart of a woman is like. 
It needs but a tear to nourish the flower of pity, and 
with pity comes — " 


394 


l’americaine. 


“Love?” asked Norton tremblingly of Sylvia, 
who was looking at him fixedly. 

The Yankee was now ready to shake off his 
accusers, as a bull shakes off the dogs which hang 
to his flanks. 

“What does poverty matter to me? My whole 
life answers for me. And with you, Sylvia — ah, 
with you, I shall begin another existence.” 

“If they accuse us here, we must stay,” said 
Sylvia. “If it is over yonder we must depart, when- 
ever it pleases you.” 

They had paid no heed to Mrs. Montgomery, 
who, much moved, had listened to all. Tears had 
come into her laughing eyes, which she quickly 
wiped away, for she did not wish them to be red. 

“Would you believe it, my aunt,” said Berniere 
to Madame de Solis, “I was mentally comparing 
you to a viper — imbecile! You are a New Found- 
land—” 

“Exactly,” said the marchioness. Liliane had 
also approached the Madame de Solis: 

“Very well, oh! very well !” she said, “you are an 
excellent woman, marchioness.” 

“A little selfish also,” answered Madame de Solis. 
“ I think of myself, too. Hold ! your husband,” she 
said pointing to Mr. Montgomery who was entering. 


l’americaine. 


395 


To speak by the card, he was not entering. He 
was bounding forward out of breath and seemed this 
time full of information. 

He seized Richard’s hands and squeezed them 
until the bones were nearly broken. 

“Ah! my dear Norton, my dear friend and 
partner ! Good news, great news! The well, the 
famous well ! Yes, there is oil at last. I ask your 
pardon, Liliane,” he said, excusing himself, “ but oil’s 
the word.” 

“Oh ! Lionel, come, that is equal to the painting,” 
said Mrs. Montgomery. 

“Well, the wells have literally spouted oil. They 
are superb. There is an immense output, a veritable 
lake of oil, a fortune! ” 

“You ought to have seen the colonel,” added Mont- 
gomery. “Dickson, I mean. For I posted the dis- 
patch at the Casino. He was just starting to Paris 
and he actually turned green — literally green — 
chrome green, as they say — ” 

He stopped suddenly. 

“Starting to Paris. But how about that duel?” 
asked Eva. 

“Oh ! that was a simple, inoffensive demonstration. 
The colonel declared that he had not the least in- 
tention — he was very modest about it. He could 


396 


L AMERICAINE. 


have taken a fort in America, but at Trouville he 
took — the train.” 

“All the same,” said Berniere, “ I regret Miss 
Arabella.” 

Liliane laughed. “Oh! you who are such a trav- 
eler, you will meet her at another table d' hote — in a 
better society.” 

And while they were talking, Norton, less affected 
by the news brought by Montgomery than by Syl- 
via’s smile, said to his wife: 

“We will leave for New York as soon as possible, 
my dear Sylvia. Yes, as soon as Dr. Fargeas shall 
sign your exeat. And whatever has been our experi- 
ence here, we will always have a pleasant memory 
of France. Eva, also I hope.” 

“For my part,” said Eva, vivaciously, “if Mr. and 
Mrs. Montgomery are willing to allow me to occupy 
a corner of their hotel in Hoche Avenue, I shall ask 
my uncle to let me stay a little longer. I like—” 

“What?” 

“I like Paris — yes, Babylon. You need not try to 
convert me!” 

The marchioness kissed Eva on the forehead, 
murmuring, “My dear child!” 

“They will say,” mockingly whispered the pretty 
Liliane into the ear of Madame de Solis, “ they will 


l’americaine. 


397 


say that the marquis is going to marry an American 
— the mildew!” 

“Naughty one!” said the marchioness. 

Liliane thought that after this day of storms, Mr. 
and Mrs. Norton, who must have much to say to 
each other, should be left alone. She led away 
Madame de Solis, whom she accompanied to her 
lodgings. On the road Montgomery expressed his 
astonishment that misfortune had brought together 
these two beings, when it had separated so many 
others. 

“ How prosy you are, Lionel,” said Liliane with a 
delicious pout on her rosy lips. 

“ And yet,” said the marchioness, “it is very sim- 
ple. There is a latent heroism in the heart of every 
woman. I am certain that under more than one Red- 
fearn costume there beat hearts as noble as that of 
the Pauline of Corneille. Occasion only is wanting 
to develop true heroism. It is not every day that 
we have tortures and wild beasts to brave, as in the 
time of Polyencte. But the Paulines would be eas- 
ily found if the lions of the hippodrome were true 
lions. The sublime changes its costume like all the 
rest. If they had arrested Sylvia’s husband in the 
time of the revolution, she would have cried, ‘ Vive 
la Gironde! or ‘ Vive le roi! according as he might 


39§ 


l’americaine. 


have been Girondist or royalist, and would willingly 
have followed him to the scaffold. It is no longer 
necessary to brave the guillotine, to share the lot of 
a husband. But there is always to be found the 
instinctive, feminine devotion to brave that other 
pocket guillotine called calumny. Mrs. Norton has 
chosen to remain faithful to the honor of her hus- 
band’s name. She is the heroine of Corneille over 
again. The one is worthy of the other, or rather 
they are identical. Pauline dies; Sylvia condemns 
herself to live and kills her love. The ancient French 
poet would have said to our handsome American, 
‘ Bravo, my daughter!’ But I must ask pardon for 
my chatter. What a prosy lecturer I am. Good- 
evening, I am tiring you.” 

“No, no,” said Liliane, “it is not necessary to 
occupy a professor’s chair in order to be a philoso- 
pher. One can teach psychology in talking. Thanks, 
madame.” 

They separated. Madame de Solis was thinking 
that maybe she would have more difficulty in 
coming to an understanding with her son. Men are 
more unreasonable than women. Was the marquis 
in his apartment? She would broach the question at 
once and have it out with him, if she had to wound 
him to the heart in so doing. 


l’americaine. 


399 


He was in his room, lookingout into the distance 
watching the waves, in the falling twilight, under 
the glow of the sky, still reddened by the setting 
sun. 

“Ah, my child,” said the mother, arousing him 
from his reverie, “will you be frank with me? 
Answer. You wanted to elope with Mrs. Norton. 
What did you say to her, confess now, in that letter 
which you burned?” 

He did not answer. 

“You are not willing to confide your secret to 
me? You cannot? That is right — all the follies of 
love are sacred, like debts incurred at play. It is 
only common, everyday honesty which is not so. 
Well, you proposed some madness to that woman. 
May I guess it? Another sky, another country. 
The duo of Favorita . Oh! all that is out of style 
since Wagner’s time. Do you know whatshe would 
have said in answer to your letter if she had received 
it? Firstly, she would not have answered it. Or 
rather, her husband would have taken that office 
upon himself. In fact he has done it without know- 
ing about your letter. And I bring that reply to 
you.” 

“Her husband?” said Georges astonished. 

“Yes, her husband. Oh! never fear. She has not 


400 


l’americaine. 


told him that you wished to fly with her, for I am 
certain that was your intention. It was very plain 
to me that you had the symptoms of a certain 
peculiar fever — the fever of elopement. No, she 
said nothing of all that. But take notice. At this 
juncture, Norton was unworthily attacked, slandered. 
They even said he was ruined. They said even 
worse than that. But it appears that at the bottom 
of Mrs. Norton’s exquisite heart, she still kept a ten- 
der and loyal feeling » for this brave and gallant man 
who is your friend. The wind of aspersion has 
blown upon the almost extinct cinders of that ten- 
derness and kindled it into a blaze and — ” 

“And what?” asked Georges, anxiously. 

The marchioness did not continue her theme. “I 
give you pain,” she said. “But if you knew what 
joy an honest woman feels in knowing that honest 
women are not rare, whatever is said to the con- 
trary! I know an honest young girl, too, who I 
think is delicious. Without going so far to find her, 
there is Miss Eva — ” 

Georges de Solis made an impatient gesture, 
which, however, did not deter his mother: 

“The name,” she thought, “is not then indifferent 
to the marquis.” 

“In short,” concluded the marchioness, “Mrs. 


l’americaine. 


401 


Norton will start for New York one of these morn- 
ings.” 

“With him?” asked M. de Solis. 

“What is there in that to astonish you? Yes, 
she will go with him unless Norton stays in Paris, 
which is possible, or unless Dr. Fargeas sends them 
to the Pyrenees before letting them make the voy- 
age, which is probable. But if I see the dear doctor 
I will tell him that all his valerian pellets are not 
worth my cure.” 

And as Georges regarded his mother with an air 
of stupefaction, she added, softly: 

“Yes, my cure. I have cut to the heart of the 
malady. You were a couple of fools. Mrs. Norton 
has nothing better to do than to love the husband 
who adores her, and you than to try to adore some 
one who already loves you.” 

And she added, laughing: 

“You know it is not Mademoiselle Offenburger 
to whom I have reference.” 

Then the marchioness was silent, feeling that she 
had said enough for one evening, perha*: ; too much. 

Georges de Solis remained where he was until 
night, watching the immensity of the sea, the lamps 
of the lighthouses and the golden points of the 

stars. It seemed to him that a night, an immense 

26 


402 


l’americaine. 


night, was enveloping his whole life, was veiling his 
future as with a curtain of crape. Then in this night, 
there was, as it were, the glow of a dawn, an aurora 
soft and rose colored. Some vague influence came 
upon him like the cooling caress of an evening breeze 
in summer, a breeze which coming from afar has 
passed over gardens of flowers. 

When, on the morrow, Mrs. Norton received Dr. 
Fargeas, she was transfigured, happy. He noticed a 
volume lying upon a gueridon, which he opened at a 
page determined by a book mark. 

“ Rossetti — The House of Life." “Ah,” said Far- 
geas. “I did not know you — ” 

“Oh, it is one of my favorite volumes,” answered 
Sylvia. “I had lent it to M. de Solis, who sent it 
back to me this morning.” 

The doctor read slowly from this House of Life 
the marked sonnet, marked by chance, perhaps, the 
sonnet xcvii, which the marquis had designated by 
the book-mark. 

“My name is: Who might have been! And I 
am also called Never more. Too late, Farewell.” 

“It is very pretty,” said the doctor, “very 
pretty.” He laid the volume down and added: 
“Poetry is not always the music of fools. It is the 
counsellor of sages as well. It could be employed 


l’americaine. 


403 


to good effect in medicine. Good-bye, dear madame, 
and accept my compliments on your regained health. 
After you have passed three weeks at Luchon, as 
I have prescribed, you can make the voyage to 
New York without any fear. I will answer for all 
now.” 

That same day, on the beach, as Liliane Mont- 
gomery was walking with Miss Eva, both looking 
charming in their fresh, cool costumes under their 
bright umbrellas, they met Georges de Solis, who 
was striding along, his eyes on the ground and his 
face wearing a woe-begone expression. Liliane 
marched straight to him, saying: 

“ Monsieur de Solis?” 

He bowed, as if coming out of a dream. 

“Monsieur de Solis, we are on our way to take 
some aid to our friends, the fisherman Ruaud and his 
family. Will you accompany us?” 

“ I?” said he, hesitating. 

“Yes; come and visit our poor charges with Miss 
Meredith.” 

As he was about to excuse himself, Mrs. Mont- 
gomery interrupted, vivaciously: 

“Yes, yes, you will come.” 

Making Miss Eva, who was visibly blushing with 
pleasure, pass before her on the plank-walk, she 


404 


l’americaine. 


whispered in her ear, while Georges was saluting the 
pretty little American: 

“ Come along, marchioness!” 


THE END. 


OLD BELLE OF NELSOPi 

RYE OR BOURBON WHISKEY 



AND TO BE HAND-MADE SOUR MASH OF THE FINEST DUALITY. 

For Sale in Cases Containing 12 Bottles, 15 years old; $15.00 per case. 

(roods shipped to any address, and if not found to be as represented can be returned 
at our expense. Each case contains two gallons. 

Inference : Any banking institution in Louisville. 

This whiskey is advertised in one hundred of the leading magazines and weeklies of 
the country. No one requiring whiskey as a medicine can afford to do without it. No 
gentleman using whiskey as a beverage can afford to use any other. We will pay a reward 
of $1,000.00 for the production of any whiskey that is its equal. Samples sent free upon 
application. Suitable discount to the trade. Address the 

BELLE OF NELSON DISTILLERY CO., 

123 & 125 E. Main St., Louisville, Ky. 


66 


M<ATIOM<AL” 


STANDARD 


Color of ink can be changed instantly. 
Absolutely perfect manifolder. Can 
be used with all duplicating processes. 


IRRESPECTIVE OF PRICE 

THE BEST. 


TYPEWRITER 



Standard Keyboard. Automatic Tabulator, 

Perfect Envelope Guide. 


$ 60 . + 


Ask for Specimens of 
Illuminated Work. 


Highest Possible Quality ; Lowest Price. 


SATISFACTION GUARANTEE II OR MONEY 
REFUNDED. 


Embodies every good quality found in other 
standard writing machines, and has many 
points of superiority all its own. 

Write us for illustrated pamphlet giving 
special features, etc. 

Send 2-cent stamp for “Columbian” Cal- 
endar, good for 2f)0 years. 


NATIONAL TYPEWRITER CO, 


715, 717, 7 19 ARCH ST., 
PHILADELPHIA, PA. 


SOLD ALL OVER THE WORLD. 


• • CYCLORAMA ■ ■ 

Chicago Fire 

Michigan Avenue, between Madison and Monroe Streets. 

OPEN DAY AND EVENING. HOURLY LECTURES. 

A MAGNIFICENT REPRODUCTION OF 

The Burning of Chicago. 


Opinions of the Press. 

“The very air seems ablaze, the streets 
are rivers of fire. It is a striking 
piece of realism.” — Tribune . 

“It is an unparalleled attraction.”— Jour- 
nal. 

“ A magnificent reproduction .” — Inter 
Ocean. 

“It is a revelation. It is historical.” — 
Daily News. 


Startling Figures. 

17 buildings burned per minute! 

$200,000 of loss per minute! 

100 people rendered homeless per minute! 
2!4 acres burned over per minute! 

In the great Chicago Fire. 



1859. HARPER’S FERRY. 


CHICAGO, 1092. 


JOHN BROWN’S FORT. 

This Famous Battle Fortress of John Brown removed from 

HARPER’S FERRY to CHICAGO. 

Now on Exhibition Daily, Sunday included, 8 : 30 a. in. to 10 )>. in. 

1337 to 1343 Wabash Avenue, Cl.icago. 

DO NOT FAIL TO SEE THIS GREAT ATTRACTION 



















* ■ 0 0 ^0 
> 5 N 0 


6 *• 

. 0 r » < * « /■ ^ " 1 
ti® ’\n<?»JvV •’x 


w> ^ 



s V> ✓ ' <. r\ 

* » I ' * \V ^ * 0 N 0 X k^° 

v\o'% > ,0 v * * 

<■ - ^ ^ -V ,4^ ^ £ 

^ a* - .MSlfeS. - %4 . 



<\V ./> 
,\v <a. 


- -\ 

* W ^ -* ^ ^ 

v/ v ,S. vk ^L\ V - •>* ^fi6fVT!\Ap' -to Vi X 

,> l \ g? -A r ^, ^Q/W&F' v Q ' 

,.U, <U y °-X 0 .**c,% *'••'' / ,„., <- '••> 

■m^*^ a 4 ,K ■**- ' ° ° 0 '-' 



v 0 o 


o 

Sso^ ^0- 



V c 0 N 


V* V s 


\ 


0 




<\V ^ 


\V ^ * C\ 

Y * 0 ^ 17 » 1 ' * \* s * * , ^ * 3 N 0 ? 

,’, . '. % V '■'!*'<?* > V * 

</ 'f 

r *, v /\ • ‘v * !% /\ • « • . v ■ 1 * * ' \ 0 * v - • 

' „. . '■■ ?£{$%> * %, A s‘ rfSSvw- ", ° 0° 

&: 00 :®; A > :*w 

V ^ ^ »°°- v£ : ^ -u 

\ dx ✓ 'W r * 0 * ^ ^ " 

11* 







,\V rP 

NT ,/> - 

< * y o"\7^ A % '*, 

y® : A V .° -MSSfH =*4 

» >,oox. > -,' 1 ^^p-.‘ ^ -n*. * 

0 ’ -^0 


•<?• .V. 

° ^ <& 


S <^' ^ ^ t. 

CX <1 

. > t O <» » -X-v 

\* „ s ' ' 




\ x V - * ^ £> -A 

t y \0 ^ y n . -fc .\ 




*> *«, *^1 * " ' 1 
^ , *- 

* ^ 


*' _; ^\\st!7/-^ r “ :> 

p 

Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 

Trofltm«nt 


:/* .v 

cA 



>X. 0 

■D f * , . > ii 

* * « > A- . . „ - , 

*'S ^ 

r oo^ ° ^ ^ 

•v cS r Kv * 0 \9 

^ * ' 5 ^ ' 

*■- " 


Deacidified using the bookKeeper pro< 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
1 Treatment Date: . _ 

1996 


Y> 

*1 


^0 


- jBBKREEPER 

PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. INC. 
Ill Thomson Park Drive 


c O « 





A 0 N O' ^ 

A % -D 



,* \ 


0 -o, »„,•'/,„/« *,;.’ i 

° /■ O V t S ' /y > .Q 


V ° * \ 

* < 5 > v'V C 

* A A 

' =v, ' • 

■< x* ° 

o X° l 

A ,o° * 




A <v 


A o, 

A ^ 0 M c ^ ^ * * S 

.A ° 



/ ' . V . . , ,0NC . V ■ . , <V^ ' ° ^ ^\ A < 



** V 


0 o 


'-. ■> N 0 A </- * 

^ A * * * 0 ^ cv 

0* Ar aJ\>-V /L ^ <?V> 

'/ V 00 


V 

O0 


A * 


A 







, * */. v* « 

'■ • . $ ®, - 

- ^ ‘ * * 

<* A* 

\ / *VV'- V * 


iV tP 


w 


* A % °- 'WA **' ”% •, 

•VA. 




^ 9 \ 


+ v* ^ ° <{// 8 S 

A * ".A 



<$ ,j .p> * 

> y* i^ A O * / < s <0 

„ <s> A c° c r V f o* a * 

^ *>% A\ 



o 0 


e» 

* 

•4 

y ^ _ . * A O ^ / c s <0 * 0 * \ % A 

•a . 

: ^ =„ 
Q> T^ ^ ^ O \ 0 ^ ^ Q 

| J ^ • » ;> c . *••'■ ' vZ' ' .;; ' >> * 3 H 0 V °°* ' * 0 '\ 

% <£ ;MA° ^c ft ^ * ^CX^i r " 



aV </> 





'"oo' 



"*■ " " ,k VVj t L C ‘%o'*' V Z 0 v 

^ V «S ^ V -^ * 

- ^ V? 



•>v ^\‘ 



